JAMES  S.GILBERT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PANAMA   PATCHWORK 


\ 


[DIED  AUGUST,  1906] 


PANAMA 
PATCHWORK 

POEMS 

BY 

JAMES  STANLEY  GILBERT 


NINTH   THOUSAND 


NEW  YORK 

THE    TROW   PRESS 

1911 


COPYRIGHT,    1909,    FOR 

tHE    UNITED    STATES    AND    PANAMA 

BY   TRACY   ROBINSON 


HAIL,   PANAMA! 


(Hlr,  " 

Daughter  of  Oceans  twain, 
Pearl  Tsles  and  Golden  main, 

Bail,  Panama! 
Glorious  thy  history 
Shall  thro*  the  ages  be, 
Offspring  of  Liberty, 

Bail,  Panama: 


Queen  of  the  Summer  Cand 
By  nature's  high  command, 

Bail,  Panama! 
Peaceful  as  was  thy  birth, 
thy  sons  shall  make  thy  worth 
Known  over  an  the  earth, 

flail,  Panamai 


freedom  is  thine  by  Right, 
Tn  fionor  lies  thy  might, 

Bail,  Panama! 
Justice  and  Uerity, 
Ulisdom,  Sincerity, 
Bring  thee  prosperity, 

Bail,  Panama! 


INTRODUCTION 

To  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


IN  a  foreword,  written  for  an  edition  of  Mr.  Gil 
bert's  poems,  published  in  1894,  I  said: 

"  Life  on  the  Isthmus  of  Panama  has  some  in 
teresting  and  peculiar  features.  The  geographical 
isolation  being  practically  complete,  except  by  sea, 
it  follows  that  a  narrow  strip  of  country  along  the 
Panama  Railroad  is  all  that  modern  civilization  can 
boast  of  having  captured.  Nor  is  there  evidence 
that  any  astonishing  advances  have  yet  been  made 
within  even  this  limited  zone.  The  jungle  still 
holds  sway  and  defies  the  schoolmaster. 

"  Among  those  who  have  from  time  to  time  held 
official  positions  in  the  different  companies,  or  who 
have  engaged  in  other  business  pursuits,  there  has 
now  and  then  been  one  who  has  caught  the  spirit 
of  the  place  and  has  had  the  surprising  energy  to 
write  interestingly  of  his  surroundings.  That  this 
has  been  the  case  with  my  friend,  the  writer  of  the 
following  pages,  is  my  own  firm  conviction,  and  it 
gives  me  pleasure  to  believe  that  the  public  will 
agree  with  me. 

'*  These  poems  have  been  evolved  from  an  inner 
consciousness,  the  visible  and  outward  environment 
of  which  has  been  an  active  business  life. 

ix 


904138 


"  They  have  been  penned  while  others  slept  or 
were  engaged  in  some  other  engrossing  tropical 
employment  quite  as  intellectual.  The  somewhat 
limited  local  audience  to  which  they  were  addressed 
has  been  greatly  pleased,  and  it  will  give  the  nu 
merous  friends  of  their  author  much  gratification 
to  know  that  a  wider  public  has  endorsed  their 
verdict." 

Little  more  need  be  said  at  the  present  time. 
There  will  be  a  larger  audience,  owing  to  a  greatly 
increased  Isthmian  population,  and  a  wider  ac 
quaintance  with  the  poems  which  the  former  edi 
tions,  now  out  of  print,  has  given.  The  maturing 
gift  of  the  author  will  be  recognized  in  the  addi 
tional  poems,  nearly  twenty  in  number,  in  the  pres 
ent  volume;  and  it  is  my  steadfast  faith  that,  for 
"  local  color  "  as  well  as  poetic  form  and  complete- 
ness,  nothing  better  has  been  written. 

TRACY  ROBINSON. 

COLON,  October,   1905. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

MCE 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  COCOANUT-TREE  ....  i 

IN  THE  ROAR  OF  THE  OCEAN 3 

SUNSET 5 

BEYOND  THE  CHAGRES 6 

THE  ISTHMIAN  WAY 8 

THE  FUNERAL  TRAIN 10 

A  FRIJOLES  WASHER-GIRL 12 

JOHN  ASPINWALL 13 

"CiNco  CENTAVOS?" 15 

To  THE  SOUTHERN  CROSS 17 

THE  SEA-GRAPE  TREE 18 

WOODBINE  SALLY 20 

ISTHMIAN  HYMN 22 

THE  TRADE- WIND 24 

A  SONG  OF  DRY  WEATHER 25 

YELLOW  EYES          26 

HE  HAS  GONE 27 

THE  PARADISE  OF  FOOLS 29 

THE  BUSIEST  MAN 31 

xi 


WHILE  WE'RE  STILL  LIVING  ON        ....  34 

THE  NAKED  BROWN  BABIES  OF  BOLIVAR  STREET    .  36 

DE  PROFUNDIS 37 

THE  WAIL  OF  THE  FORGOTTEN 38 

LA  CANTINERA 39 

To  THE  "CRAB" 41 

OUR  GURL  MARY 42 

THAT  EXCELLENT  HEART 44 

THE  MAN  WHO  Is  ALWAYS  RIGHT    ....  45 

A  PANAMA  LULLABY 47 

A  TROPIC  NOCTURNE 48 

SAN  LORENZO 49 

OUR  LITTLE  LANDSCAPE 51 

THE  WANING  MOON 52 

THE  NEVER-FAILING  FRIEND 53 

KING  FEVER 55 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  MOSQUITO 56 

"No  ICE" 57 

THE  SAND-FLY 59 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  PRICKLY  HEAT     ....  60 

SONG  OF  THE  MISANTHROPE 62 

A  MARVEL 64 

GEOGRAPHICAL 65 

EPIGRAM 66 

xii 


PACK 

HE'LL  NEVER  DIE 67 

WHEN  THE  TRADE- WIND  BLOWS  AGAIN  6& 

"To  BLAME?"  . 70 

ON  RONCADOR 72 

THE  VISIT 73 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  RAINBOW 75 

THE  COMRADES  OF  THE  PLEASANT  PAST  .      .      .  76 

To  MNEMOSYNE 78 

B.  C.  2000 80 

OUR  UNCLE  SAM 82 

CHIARINI  AND  His  ELEPHANT 84 

IN  MEMORIAM 86 

THE  EPITAPH 88 

SAINTS'  REST 89 

Two  WORDS 92 

THEN  AND  Now 95 

FIDUS  ACHATES 97 

WARNED 98 

TRANSMIGRATION 100 

A  TOAST 102 

SAINT  PATRICK 103 

MALACHI 104 

ME  Too 107 

LITTLE  JAMAICA  MAN 109 

xiii 


PAGE 

BENEATH  THE  ROSE no 

AT  SUNSET  TIME in 

I  THINK  OF  THEE 112 

SHE  SENDS  HER  LOVE 113 

To  VIOLET 114 

THESE  AWFUL  DAYS 115 

THE  HAPPIEST  TIME 116 

TABOGA 118 

ONLY  A  WEED 120 

SIMPLE  AVEU 121 

"THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES" 123 

"OLD  COMRADE" 125 

THE  PRAYER  OF  A  TIMID  MAN  .       .       .       .       .127 

IF  YE  WEEP 128 

MEMORY 129 

THE  WAVE 131 

JOB  AND  ANOTHER 132 

LET  ME  ALONE 134 

Au  REVOIR 135 

VICTORIA  THE  WOMAN 137 

A  SPRIG  OF  SAGE-BRUSH 139 

THE  MINORITY  .      .      .      .      .      .      .142 

CHARITY 143 

THE  PORTAL  AND  THE  DOOR 144 

xiv 


To  JOHN  PAYNE 145 

A  SHIP  or  MIST 146 

WE  LINGER  STILL 147 

WHEN  I  AM  DEAD 148 

To  HIM  WHO  WAITS 149 

MY  WICKER  JUG 150 

THE  SWEET  OLD  STORY 151 

THE  FALL  OF  OLD  PANAMA 153 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  CACIQUE 160 

ON  THE  BROW  OF  THE  HILL 166 

CURTAIN 170 


FOREWORD 

To  THE  THIRD  EDITION. 

THE  gratifying  success  of  the  second  edition  of 
"  Patchwork,"  that  was  issued  at  the  end  of  Decem 
ber  and  was  out  of  print  in  February,  has  induced 
the  author  to  consent  to  this  third  edition.  And 
since,  in  a  way,  it  has  been  my  happy  fortune  to 
stand  these  many  years  with  ever-increasing  interest 
as  a  sort  of  godfather  to  Mr.  Gilbert's  Muse,  the 
fact  that  bringing  out  this  new  and  improved  issue 
has  also  been  entrusted  to  my  care  gives  me  pleasure. 
It  affords  an  opportunity  of  adding  to  the  brief 
"  Introductory "  of  the  second  edition  a  few  ex 
planatory  words  which  may  be  of  use  to  other  than 
Isthmian  readers. 

Although  the  poems  are  largely  confined  to  local 
themes,  it  will  be  found,  I  think,  that  their  general 
scope  is  far  wider.  The  very  first  line  of  the  first 
poem, 

"Away  down  south  in  the  Torrid  Zone," 

brings  before  the  mind  a  vision  of  the  tropics  that 
appeals  at  once  to  the  Northern  mind  and  suggests 
the  "  Land  of  the  Cocoanut  Tree."  And  the  free, 

xvii 


off-hand,  spontaneous  manner  in  which  the  fascinat 
ing  vista  of  tropical  life  afforded  by  the  book  is 
opened  in  this  initial  poem  will  be  found  to  hold 
good  all  through.  It  sets  the  pace.  It  lends  its 
"  potent  charm  "  from  first  to  last.  For  if  Mr. 
Gilbert  is  anything  he  is  natural.  Take  the  next 
poem,  "  In  the  Roar  of  the  Ocean,"  and  as  you  read 
it  and  place  yourself  on  the  coral  reef  beside 

"  Him  whose  daily  lot  from  year  to  year 
Has  been  its  never-ceasing  voice  to  hear," 

you  will  be  thrilled  through  with  its  significance. 
And  thus,  with  varying  mood,  influenced  by  the 
hour  and  theme,  will  be  found  the  touch  that  Nature 
alone  bestows  upon  her  fondlings.  Art  is  not  ab 
sent,  but  spontaneity  of  Feeling  is  the  poetic  element 
always  the  more  conspicuous.  This  is  the  gift  of 
which  we  are  constantly  the  most  conscious  in  these 
poems.  It  is  disguised  if  you  please  by  a  frequent 
cynicism,  but  it  is  there  all  the  same.  The  bitterness 
of  the  instant  is  only  a  sudden  impulse,  a  hot  resent 
ment  and  hatred  of  wrong,  an  outcry  against  mean 
ness  and  sham.  "  The  Isthmian  Way,"  "  The  Busi 
est  Man,"  "  The  Never-Failing  Friend,"  and  others 
are  in  the  nature  of  protest  and  disclaimer. 

The  poems  are  nearly  all  objective.  Of  the  con 
siderable  number  in  which  "  local  color  "  is  a  prom 
inent  feature,  perhaps  "  John  Aspinwall,"  page  13, 
is  as  good  as  any.  The  brief  note  to  this  poem  in 
the  second  edition  does  scant  justice  to  its  hero. 

xviii 


He  certainly  wandered  about  Colon,  when  it  was 
Aspinwall,  for  many  years,  silent,  inscrutable,  de 
mented  rather  than  crazy.  He  took  his  name  from 
the  town,  and  like  any  great  man  might  have  been 
called  John  of  Aspinwall.  A  speechless,  harmless, 
picturesque  old  black  man,  clad  in  rags  tied  with 
strings  to  keep  them  from  falling  off,  he  walked  the 
town  as  though  on  patrol,  and  slept,  as  the  poem 
says,  in  a  hut  or  den 

"  By  the  Dead-House  gate." 
He  was  there  (indeed  he  was) 

"  When  Totten  came, 
And  Baldwin  and  all  the  rest, 
To  build  thro'  the  swamps  their  pathway  of  fame," 

and  by  the  irony  of  fate  he  remained  after  they  had 
all  passed  away.  (It  may  be  said  here  for  the  in 
formation  of  new  readers  that  Col.  G.  M.  Totten 
was  chief  engineer,  with  W.  H.  Baldwin  as  his  very 
able  principal  assistant  in  the  construction  of  the 
Panama  Railroad,  1850-1855.)  Old  John  died  as 
he  had  lived, 

"A  quaint  old  moke  ": 
and  no  one  knew 

— "  if  thoughts  at  all 
Ever  lurked  in  his  woolly  pate." 

Another  local  poem,  page  18,  celebrates  the 
famous  old  Sea-grape  Tree,  that  stood  on  the  sea- 
beach-front  of  the  town,  and  was  regarded  with 
affection  by  all,  until  it  was  wantonly  laid  low.  The 

xix 


"  Epitaph  "  conveys  the  feeling  of  indignation  that 
followed. 

"  Woodbine  Sally  "  is  another  local  reminiscence, 
also  "  Cinco  Centavos,"  "  Yellow  Eyes,"  "  He  Has 
Gone,"  "La  Cantinera,"  "Our  Gurl  Mary,"  and 
many  more.  "  To  Blame  "  was  written  as  a  pro 
test  against  the  censure  directed  towards  the  Cap 
tain  of  the  steamship  Moselle  that  was  lost  a  few 
miles  from  Colon.  "  In  Memoriam  "  was  a  tribute 
paid  to  a  wonderful  monkey  that  must  have  had 
human  intelligence,  while  "  Fides  Achates "  cele 
brates  a  pet  dog. 

Of  the  poems  of  what  may  be  called  a  higher 
order,  the  reader  will  find  many  evidences  of  touch 
ing  tenderness  and  appreciation.  Read  "  To  the 
Southern  Cross,"  "  The  Trade- Wind,"  "  A  Tropic 
Nocturne,"  "  When  the  Trade- Wind  Blows 
Again,"  "The  Visit,"  "New  Year's  Rainbow," 
"  To  Mnemosyne,"  "  At  Sunset  Time,"  "  I  Think 
of  Thee,"  "  She  Sends  Her  Love,"  "  The  Happiest 
Time,"  "  Simple  Aveu,"  "  If  Ye  Weep,"  "  The 
Wave,"  "  Au  Revoir,"  "  A  Ship  of  Mist,"  "  The 
Sweet  Old  Story,"  and  numerous  others. 

"  In  the  Land  of  the  Cacique  "  the  strange  San 
Bias  Indians  are  described,  a  tribe  that  has  never 
been  subdued. 

"  Let  them  live  in  their  seclusion," 

writes  Mr.  Gilbert;  and  all  who  know  aught  of  this 
gentle,  yet  heroic,  people  will  endorse  his  wish. 

xx 


If  a  poet  is  to  be  judged  by  his  best  work,  I  think 
perhaps  the  poem  called  "  B.  C.  2000,"  at  page  81, 
may  be  placed  at  high-water  mark  in  the  list.  The 
theme  is  the  fascinating  one  of  reincarnation  and  is 
treated  with  great  delicacy  and  haunting  beauty.  It 
shows  the  finer  thread  of  fancy,  a  bit  obscured  at 
times  in  other  pieces. 

"  In  Victoria  the  Woman,"  noble  tribute  is  paid, 
while  "  Our  Uncle  Sam,"  in  a  patriotic  Fourth-of- 
July  poem,  receives  the  homage  of  a  loyal  heart. 

At  the  end  will  be  found  the  sad  recital  called 
"  On  the  Brow  of  the  Hill,"  in  which  sorrowful 
cemetery  musings  are  gathered. 

Now  turn  we  to  "  Only  a  Weed,"  page  121. 
Colon  is  perhaps  the  most  unpromising  field  on  earth 
for  a  poet.  Unless  he  shall  have  the  genius  to  find 
beauty  in  most  unexpected  places,  in  a  simple  weed 
for  example, 

"  In  a  rubbish  barrel  growing," 

and  to  modestly  offer  it  in  rhyme 

"  With  never  a  word  of  preaching," 

he  can  hardly  hope. for  inspiration  from  such  en 
vironment.  It  is  all  the  more  wonderful,  therefore, 
that  in  surroundings  so  hopeless,  in  a  retirement  so 
severe  from  all  influences  that  may  be  described  as 
intellectual  and  elevating,  the  contents  of  the  present 
volume  should  ever  have  been  written  at  all.  The 

xxi 


weed  in  the  rubbish  barrel  is  typical  of  the  entire 
situation.  Read  it,  friends,  and  you  will  I  think  at 
once  discover  that  this  poet,  hidden  away  within  his 
shy  soul,  not  for  common  use  and  display,  has  the 
gift  of  gifts.  The  wondrous  Gift  of  Song,  that  lifts 
and  lightens  the  burdens  of  life,  and  helps  to  satisfy 
the  "  Great  Want "  after  which  the  brooding,  wist 
ful  heart  of  the  world  hungers  everlastingly. 

T.  R. 

NEW  YORK,  June,  1906. 


xxii 


Obituary  1Rote 


JAMES   STANLEY   GILBERT 

BORN  AT  MlDDLETOWN,  CONNECTICUT,  U.  S.  A. 
JULY  20,   1855. 

DIED  AT  COLON,  ISTHMUS  OF  PANAMA, 
AUGUST  15,  1906. 


The  following  is  from  a  short  address,  read 
at  his  grave,  by  one  who  knew  him  well  : 

"  Let  his  faults  and  mistakes  die  with  the 
mortal  life  he  has  forsaken,  and  let  his  many 
virtues  be  for  us  who  remain  as  guiding  stars 
of  excellence  and  fidelity  on  our  brief  journey 
towards  the  unknown  world  whither  his  bright, 
brave  spirit  has  departed. 

"  Good-bye,  dear  Gilbert,  good-bye  !  Un 
der  the  palms  I  watched  the  clustered  Pleiades, 
fading  with  the  dawn-star  and  waning  moon 
in  the  east  this  morning,  and  wondered  where 
you  were  !  Silent  and  sorrowful  I  asked  the 
merciful  gods  of  pity  and  forgiveness  to  guard 
you  well !  We  shall  not  forget,  dear  friend,  that 

"  '  Our  dead  are  ours  and  hold  in  faithful  keeping, 
Safe  forever  all  they  took  away.'  " 


PANAMA     PATCHWORK 


THE  LAND   OF  THE  COCOANUT-TREE 

AWAY  down  south  in  the  Torrid  Zone, 

North  latitude  nearly  nine, 
Where  the  eight  months'  pour  once  past  and  o'er, 

The  sun  four  months  doth  shine; 
Where  'tis  eighty-six  the  year  around, 

And  people  rarely  agree; 
Where  the  plaintain  grows  and  the  hot  wind  blows, 

Lies  the  Land  of  the  Cocoanut-Tree. 

Tis  the  land  where  all  the  insects  breed 

That  live  by  bite  and  sting; 
Where  the  birds  are  quite  winged  rainbows  bright, 

Tho'  seldom  one  doth  sing! 
Here  radiant  flowers  and  orchids  thrive 

And  bloom  perennially — 
All  beauteous,  yes — but  odorless! 

In  the  Land  of  the  Cocoanut-Tree. 
I 


*Tis  a  land  profusely  rich,  'tis  said, 

In  mines  of  yellow  gold, 
That,  of  claims  bereft,  the  Spaniards  left 

In  the  cruel  days  of  old ! 
And  many  a  man  hath  lost  his  life 

That  treasure-trove  to  see, 
Or  doth  agonize  with  streaming  eyes 

In  the  Land  of  the  Cocoanut-Tree ! 

'Tis  a  land  that  still  with  potent  charm 

And  wondrous,  lasting  spell 
With  mighty  thrall  enchaineth  all 

Who  long  within  it  dwell; 
'Tis  a  land  where  the  Pale  Destroyer  waits 

And  watches  eagerly; 
'Tis,  in  truth,  but  a  breath  from  life  to  death, 

In  the  Land  of  the  Cocoanut-Tree. 

Then,  go  away  if  you  have  to  go, 

Then,  go  away  if  you  will! 
To  again  return  you  will  always  yearn 

While  the  lamp  is  burning  still ! 
You've  drank  the  Chagres  water, 

And  the  mango  eaten  free, 

And,    strange    tho'    it    seems,    'twill    haunt    your 
dreams — 

This  Land  of  the  Cocoanut-Tree! 


IN    THE    ROAR    OF    THE    OCEAN 

COME  closer,  stranger,  closer  to  the  shore, 

And  listen,  listen,  listen  to  that  roar! 

Do  you  know  what  that  means  to  us,  my  man? 

Ah,  no!  not  you — not  anybody  can, 

Unless  he's  lived  for  years  upon  this  beach, 

And  learned  the  lessons  that  old  sea  doth  teach. 


To  him  whose  daily  lot  from  year  to  year 

Has  been  its  never-ceasing  voice  to  hear; 

To  him  whose  keen-trained  ear  at  once  detects 

Each  modulation  that  its  pitch  affects; 

To  him  who  hears  when  others  cannot  hear 

The  far,  faint  plash  so  like  a  falling  tear, 

That  tells  of  hours  of  torrid  heat  and  calm, 

When  fever  lingers  underneath  the  palm — 

It  means  that  Mistress  Reef,  the  Malapert, 

For  three  grand  months  shall  hide  her  draggled 

skirt 

Beneath  a  gown  of  foam-laced,  gleaming  green, 
Beside  which  pales  the  wardrobe  of  a  queen! 
It  means  that  yonder  sibilant  lagoon 
Its  pools  of  stagnant  slime  shall  banish  soon! 
That  suns,  the  brightest  that  were  ever  known, 
That  stars,  the  clearest  that  have  ever  shone, 
Shall  guide  the  day,  direct  the  smiling  night 
Thro'  tropic  paths  of  unalloyed  delight! 

3 


It  means  that  for  these  months  a  breeze  shall  blow 
That  hath  its  source  in  caves  of  Arctic  snow ! 
That  beareth  on  its  ozone-laden  breath 
The  Balm  of  Life :  the  Antidote  of  Death ! 

It  means  all  this!     Aye,  infinitely  more! 
So  closer,  stranger,  closer  to  the  shore, 
And  listen,  listen,  listen  to  that  roar! 


SUNSET 

I  SIT  on  my  lofty  piazza, 

O'erlooking  the  restless  sea; 
(A  spider  glides  over  my  forehead, 

A  cockroach  runs  over  my  knee!) 

The  god  of  the  day  is  preparing 

His  bed  for  another  night; 
(A  swarm  of  pestiferous  sand-flies 

Is  obscuring  the  glorious  sight!) 

He's  piling  his  cloud-blankets  round  him, 
Of  crimson  embroidered  with  gold ; 

(That  ant  crawling  under  my  collar, 
Down  my  spine  sends  a  shiver  of  cold!) 

He's  nodding — but  with  eye  still  half  open 
Tips  a  distant  sail  with  his  fire; 

(Dios  mio!  another  mosquito 
Is  twanging  his  dissonant  lyre!) 

He's  sleeping — the  night-lamps  are  twinkling 

All  around  his  limitless  bed ; 
(A  bat,  darting  hither  and  thither, 

Has  just  missed  hitting  my  head!) 

Farewell  till  to-morrow,  old  fellow ! 

Thou  warmest,  most  tropical  friend ! 
(A  centipede's  slowly  approaching— 

'Tis  time  for  my  reverie  to  end!) 


BEYOND    THE     CHAGRES 

BEYOND  the  Chagres  River 

Are  paths  that  lead  to  death — 
To  the  fever's  deadly  breezes, 

To  malaria's  poisonous  breath! 
Beyond  the  tropic  foliage, 

Where  the  alligator  waits, 
Are  the  mansions  of  the  Devil — 

His  original  estates! 

Beyond  the  Chagres  River 

Are  paths  fore'er  unknown, 
With  a  spider  'neath  each  pebble, 

A  scorpion  'neath  each  stone. 
'Tis  here  the  boa-constrictor 

His  fatal  banquet  holds, 
And  to  his  slimy  bosom 

His  hapless  guest  enfolds! 

Beyond  the  Chagres  River 

Lurks  the  cougar  in  his  lair, 
And  ten  hundred  thousand  dangers 

Hide  in  the  noxious  air. 
Behind  the  trembling  leaflets, 

Beneath  the  fallen  reeds, 
Are  ever-present  perils 

Of  a  million  different  breeds ! 
6 


Beyond  the  Chagres  River 

'Tis  said — the  story's  old — 
Are  paths  that  lead  to  mountains 

Of  purest  virgin  gold; 
But  'tis  my  firm  conviction, 

Whatever  tales  they  tell, 
That  beyond  the  Chagres  River 

All  paths  lead  straight  to  hell ! 


THE    ISTHMIAN    WAY 

To  bow  and  scrape  and  shake  your  hand, 
To  greet  you  with  a  smile  so  bland 
That  you  will  think  no  other  friend 
Can  toward  you  half  the  good  intend; 
But  still  to  cherish  in  one's  heart 
Enough  rank  hate  to  fill  a  cart— 
This  is  the  Isthmian  way. 

To  buy  for  gold  and  silver  pay; 
To  answer  yea  while  thinking  nay, 
To  borrow  some  one's  little  wealth, 
And  leave  the  country  for  one's  health; 
To  plot  and  scheme  and  slyly  seek 
To  make  some  decent  man  a  sneak — 
This  is  the  Isthmian  way. 

To  kiss  the  man  who  wins  success, 
And  kick  the  man  whose  luck  is  less; 
To  make  of  vice  beatitude, 
And  virtue  of  ingratitude ! 
Accept  all  favors,  but  omit 
To  e'er  return  the  benefit — 

This  is  the  Isthmian  way. 

To  curry  favor  with  the  great, 
And  pander  to  one's  meanest  trait; 
To  smash  the  Decalogue  to  bits, 
But  give  your  neighbor's  weakness  fits ! 
8 


Oppress  the  weak,  uphold  the  strong — 

In  short,  do  everything  that's  wrong — 

This  is  the  Isthmian  way. 

To  wage  a  miasmatic  strife, 
And  suffer  all  the  ills  of  life; 
To  eat  and  drink  one's  self  to  death, 
And  curse  God  with  one's  latest  breath ; 
And  then  a  "  heavenly  mansion  "  fill 
Prepared  for  one  on  Monkey  Hill  * — 
This  is  the  Isthmian  way. 

God  grant  that  haply  some  of  us 
Escape  the  general  animus, 
And  travel,  though  but  falteringly, 
The  nobler  path  of  charity : 
Tho'  stumbling  often,  still  to  find 
More  cleanly  records  left  behind 
Than  by  the  Isthmian  way. 

*  The  cemetery. 


THE      FUNERAL    TRAIN 

THRUST  her  in  the  dead-car  box! 
Jump  aboard — let's  have  a  ride ! 
Ring  the  merry  engine  bell : 
Death  has  claimed  another  bride! 
Pass  the  gin  to  every  one, 
Pull  the  throttle  open  wide — 
Pobre  de  solemnidad! 

Now  we  start — we  round  the  curve — 
Down  the  busy  street  we  go! 
There  is  Gardner's  circus-tent, 
And  to-night  we'll  see  the  show ! 
Through  the  window  stick  your  head — 
Wave  your  hat  to  all  you  know — 
Pobre  de  solemnidad! 

Here  Fox  River  is  at  last- 
See  those  men  and  women  fight! 
Sal,  old  gal,  give  me  a  smoke — 
Bless  my  skin,  that  sun  is  bright! 
Here  we  are  at  Monkey  Hill ; 
Lend  a  hand — the  corpse  is  light : 
Pobre  de  solemnidad! 

Up  the  weedy  slope  we  climb : 
Billy  Black,  you're  drunk,  I  swear! 
And  so  are  you !  and  you !  and  you ! 
And  so  am  I,  I  do  declare! 
10 


Now  you've  dropped  her!     Pick  her  up 
Leave  the  lid — we're  almost  there! 
Pobre  de  solemnidad! 

Dump  her  in  the  common  grave! 
Aren't  those  lilies  mighty  sweet? 
In  she  goes !     Now  heap  the  earth — 
Never  mind  to  be  so  neat ! 
There's  no  need  to  make  it  deep — 
No  frost  here  to  nip  her  feet : 
Pobre  de  solemnidad! 


ii 


A     FRIJOLES     WASHER-GIRL 

A  DREAM  in  living  bronze  is  she, 

A  dusky  goddess  full  revealed; 
Clad  but  in  Nature's  modesty — 

Her  wondrous  beauty  unconcealed. 

Half  to  her  knee,  the  rushing  stream 

An  instant  pauses  on  its  way; 
The  ripples  in  the  sunshine  gleam, 

And  tiny  rainbows  round  her  play. 

Lithe  as  the  bamboo  growing  near 
Within  the  tangled,  tropic  glade; 

As  graceful  as  the  startled  deer 
Half  hidden  in  the  distant  shade. 

The  limbs,  the  hips,  the  swelling  bust 
Of  famed  Olympus'  fairest  queen, 

Ne'er  modelled  yet  on  lines  more  just 
Was  ever  sculptured  marble  seen ! 

Her  curl-fringed  eyes,  now  black,  now  brown, 
Are  depths  of  passion  unexplored ; 

Her  teeth,  a  glistening,  pearly  crown 
A  Rajah  would  delight  to  hoard. 

A  dream,  a  dream  in  bronze  is  she, 

A  dusky  goddess  full  revealed ! 
Clad  but  in  Nature's  modesty — 

Her  wondrous  beauty  unconcealed ! 

12 


JOHN     ASPINWALL 

A  QUAINT  old  moke  is  John  Aspinwall, 

Who  lives  by  the  Dead-House  gate, 
And  quaint  are  his  thoughts,  if  thoughts  at  all 

Ever  lurk  in  his  woolly  pate. 
For  he's  old  as  the  hills,  is  this  old  black  man — 

Thrice  doubled  with  age  is  he ; 
And  the  days  when  his  wanderings  first  began 

Are  shrouded  in  mystery. 

Perhaps  he  was  living  when  Morgan's  crew 

Came  lusting  for  Spanish  gold, 
And  drenched  the  Isthmus  with  bloody  dew 

In  the  brave,  bold  days  of  old. 
Perhaps  he  was  here  when  the  pioneers 

Of  the  days  almost  forgot 
Made  a  trail  o'er  the  land  with  their  bitter  tears 

And  the  bones  they  left  to  rot. 

Perhaps  he  was  here  when  Totten  came 

And  Baldwin  and  all  the  rest, 
To  build  thro'  the  swamps  their  pathway  to  fame 

From  Chagres  to  Ancon's  crest. 
And  many  a  night  he  has  lain,  no  doubt, 

By  the  side  of  some  comrade  ill, 
Whose  corpse,  in  the  morn,  he  has  carried  out 

To  its  rest  on  Monkey  Hill. 


For  years  upon  years  he  has  seen  the  tide 

Of  adventurers  ebb  and  flow — 
Success  and  improvidence,  side  by  side, 

Seen  ceaselessly  come  and  go. 
He  has  seen  the  gamut  of  passion  run, 

Oh,  thousands  and  thousands  of  times! 
And  witnessed  the  brightest,  purest  sun 

Uncover  the  darkest  of  crimes. 

Yet  never  a  word  will  he  answer  me 

Whenever  he  passes  by, 
Though  often  a  curious  light  I  see 

In  his  fathomless,  coal-black  eye. 
Oh,  a  quaint  old  moke  is  John  Aspinwall, 

Who  lives  by  the  Dead-House  gate; 
And  quaint  are  his  thoughts,  if  thoughts  at  all 

Ever  lurk  in  his  woolly  pate ! 


14 


"CIN  CO    CENT AV OS  f" 

I  WONDER  'neath  what  ban 
His  worthless  life  began, 
And  where  he  learned  to  say, 
As  I  hear  him  every  day : 
"  Cinco  centavos?  " 

No  one  has  ever  heard 
Him  say  another  word; 
He  may  know  more,  'tis  true, 
But  he'll  only  answer  you : 
"  Cinco  centavos?  " 

He's  such  a  queer  old  boy, 
With  his  pants  of  corduroy 
And  his  faded  velvet  coat, 
While  he  says,  as  if  by  rote: 
"  Cinco  centavos?  " 

His  shirt  is  ancient,  too. 
He  wears  one  boot,  one  shoe, 
And  he  twirls  a  shabby  cane 
As  he  chants  the  old  refrain  : 
"  Cinco  centavos?  " 

His  hair  has  not  been  cut 
Since  he  washed  his  face  of  smut 
Years  ago,  when  he  was  neat 
And  knew  not  to  repeat: 
"  Cinco  centavos?  " 
15 


Each  day  he  tramps  the  town, 
Tho'  the  rain  is  pouring  down, 
With  the  mud  up  to  his  knees, 
Greeting  every  one  he  sees : 
"  Cinco  centavos?  " 

He  sleeps  beneath  the  pier — 
If  you  listen,  you  can  hear 
The  echoes  grumbling  deep 
As  he  murmurs  in  his  sleep : 
"  Cinco  centavos?  " 

The  fate  in  store  for  him 
Must  be  a  synonym 
Of  the  woful  wretchedness 
His  only  words  express : 
"  Cinco  centavos?  " 


16 


TO     THE     SOUTHERN     CROSS 

WHEN  evening  drapes  her  filmy  robe 
O'er  distant  hill  and  drooping  palm, 

And,  save  soft  echoes,  naught  disturbs 
The  purple  twilight's  drowsy  calm — 

Soft  echoes  from  the  coral  reef ; 

The  waves'  low  greeting  to  the  stars, 
That,  answering  across  the  sea, 

Send  fellowship  on  shining  bars — 

'Tis  then,  while  earth  is  slumbering, 
Its  woes  forgot  in  restful  dreams, 

That  thou,  Christ's  love-test  symbolling, 
Shed'st  o'er  the  blue  thy  sacred  beams. 

'Tis  then  by  him  who,  listening,  waits, 
The  still,  small  voice  is  heard  again 

In  song — the  sweetest  ever  sung — 

"  Upon  earth  peace:  good-will  to  men!  " 


THE    SEA-GRAPE    TREE 

LONG,  long  ago,  in  the  faded  past, 

A  breeze  from  the  Indigo  Hills — 
Where  every  morn  the  sun  is  born 

'Mid  fair  Santa  Rita's  rills— 

On  its  fragrant  breath  a  seedling  bore 

Across  the  arm  of  the  sea, 
And  on  the  shore  where  the  breakers  roar 

It  planted  the  sea-grape  tree. 

And  old  Mother  Carib  nursed  it  long, 

And  chanted  it  lullabies; 
And  over  each  leaf  from  out  on  the  reef 

She  watched  with  vigilant  eyes. 

And  the  rain  and  the  mist  and  the  gentle  dew 
Brought  strength  to  its  lengthening  roots ; 

And  the  sun  with  his  light  and  the  moon  with  her 

light, 
Both  nourished  its  tender  shoots. 

And  so  the  tree  grew  to  a  wondrous  size, 

And  in  wondrous  shape  as  well ; 
Yet  weird  tho'  its  look,  there  never  was  book 

That  could  weirder  stories  tell ! 

For  within  the  memory  of  man  'tis  known 

That,  under  its  spreading  shade, 
Full  many  a  one,  his  travail  done, 

His  bed  of  death  hath  made. 
18 


And  below  its  branches  men  have  sat 

And  plotted  a  nation's  wrong ; 
While  lovers  have  met,  as  they  sit  there  yet, 

To  murmur  the  world-sweet  song. 

And  many  a  fateful  duel  there 
Have  lifelong  comrades  fought; 

And  near  to  its  seat  have  children's  feet 
For  the  branching  coral  sought. 

Around  its  trunk  the  mummers  have  danced 

To  the  clicking  castinet, 
And  beneath  its  boughs  the  gay  carouse 

And  funeral  train  have  met ! 

Yet  all  undisturbed  by  Nature's  hand, 
On  the  shores  of  the  changeful  sea, 

Oblivious  still  to  the  good  or  the  ill, 
Standeth  the  sea-grape  tree ! 

EPITAPH 

Thou  can'st  not  censure  more  than  we, 
The  vandal  hand  that  laid  thee  low  : — 

But  any  fool  can  fell  a  tree — 

Tho'  it  takes  a  God  to  make  one  grow ! 


WOODBINE    SALLY 

(A     MEMORY    OF     EIGHTY-SIX) 

IN  a  low  and  rambling  shanty 

Outside  the  stable  gate, 
Where  woolly-headed  "  aunty  " 

With  wash-bills  used  to  wait, 
All  the  boys  were  wont  to  rally 

For  cocktails  every  night ; 
And  'twas  there  I  first  saw  Sally, 

Poor  Sally — almost  white ! 

By  day  or  night  she  took  delight 

In  greeting  every  guest 
That  came  her  way,  and  made  him  pay 

For  the  glass  she'd  quaff  with  zest ! 
But  she  left  us  one  dry  season 

To  glut  her  appetite 
With  a  mixture  called  Ambrosia — 

Poor  Sally — almost  white! 

Her  hair  was  like  dried  seaweed, 

Her  eyes  were  faded  blue ; 
Her  limbs,  they  say,  were  knock-kneed, 

Her  skin  was  saffron  hue ! 
Her  features  were  not  classic, 

But  her  teeth  were  snowy  bright, 
And  her  speech  was  somewhat  drastic — 

Poor  Sally — almost  white! 
20 


Much  drink  she'd  try  to  sell  you 

With  manner  frank  and  free, 
And  any  one  will  tell  you 

She  was  quick  at  repartee! 
For  her  own  or  for  the  bar's  sake 

She  never  shirked  a  fight ! 
She  was  handy  with  a  car-stake — 

Poor  Sally — almost  white! 

But,  oh,  one  hot  December, 

Things  snapped  inside  her  head! 
Some  old  folks  may  remember 

How  she  looked  when  she  was  dead ! 
And  they've  torn  the  "  woodbine  "  roots  up 

Till  there's  not  a  sprig  in  sight, 
Yet  sometimes  a  memory  shoots  up 

Of  Sally — almost  white! 


21 


ISTHMIAN    HYMN 

COME,  all  ye  children  of  the  soil, 

Ye  offspring  of  the  sun ! 
Aid  me  to  praise  these  later  days 

Of  glory  just  begun! 
Aid  me  to  praise  in  fitting  phrase 

Your  land  of  liberty — 
By  Heaven's  grace  the  sacred  place 

Of  your  nativity! 

O  land  of  palm  and  mountain  peak, 

Of  never-fading  green ! 
Of  oceans  twain  and  storied  main, 

The  undisputed  queen ! 
O  land  whose  fond  enchantments  bind 

The  stranger's  heart  to  thee ; 
Here  be  it  known,  we  frankly  own 

Thy  gracious  sovereignty! 

Thy  broad  savanna  vies  in  wealth 

With  golden-pebbled  stream ! 
Thy  tableland  and  pearly  strand 

With  untold  riches  teem! 
Thy  precious  forests  spread  their  arms 

O'er  fruitage  lush  and  wild : 
In  all  and  part,  thou  surely  art 

Fair  Nature's  darling  child ! 

22 


Forever  shall  thy  pathway  trend 

Toward  glory's  gleaming  goal ! 
Eternally  shall  loyalty 

Inspire  each  Isthmian  soul ! 
Forever  shall  thy  sons  maintain 

Their  noble  sires'  renown ; 
For  aye,  through  them,  thy  fame  shall  gem 

Colombia's  priceless  crown! 


THE    TRADE-WIND 

BLOW,  thou  brave  old  trade-wind,  blow! 
Send  the  mighty  billows  flashing 
In  the  radiant  sunlight  dashing, 
O'er  the  reef  like  thunder  crashing! 

Blow,  thou  brave  old  trade-wind,  blow ! 

Blow,  thou  grand  old  trade-wind,  blow ! 
Oh,  for  caves  in  which  to  store  thee! 
See  the  palm-trees  bow  before  thee — 
Yea,  like  them,  we  do  adore  thee. 

Blow,  thou  grand  old  trade-wind,  blow ! 

Blow,  thou  kind  old  trade-wind,  blow ! 

Blow,  oh,  blow  with  fierce  endeavor ! 

Blow  the  fever  far,  forever ! 

Let  the  mists  return,  oh,  never! 
Blow,  thou  kind  old  trade-wind,  blow! 

Blow,  thou  good  old  trade-wind,  blow ! 

Blow  away  our  tropic  madness ! 

Blow  away  our  untold  sadness ! 

Blow  us  lasting  peace  and  gladness  ! 
Blow,  thou  good  old  trade-wind,  blow ! 


24 


A     SONG    OF    DRY    WEATHER 

WHEN  the  rains  at  last  cease  falling, 

And  the  bracing  trade-wind  blows ; 
When  the  reef  no  stagnant  waters 

Or  festering  seaweed  knows; 
Tis  a  crime  to  mope  within  doors 

In  an  atmosphere  impure — 
Come  out,  and  drink  deep,  eager  draughts 

Of  God's  sure  fever  cure! 

Every  breath  is  full  of  gladness, 

Each  inspiration  joy! 
Every  sparkle  of  the  sunshine 

A  gem  without  alloy ! 
Every  tumble  of  the  billows 

Maketh  music  far  more  sweet 
Than  ever  great  composer  wrought 

A  world's  applause  to  greet ! 

Not  a  cloud  bedims  the  heavens, 

That  are  smiling  with  delight ; 
Not  a  memory  of  sorrow 

Approaching  blurs  the  sight ! 
Of  all  pleasures  that  life  giveth, 

None  ever  can  compare 
With  the  bliss  dry  weather  bringeth 

In  its  pure,  health-giving  air ! 


YELLOW    EYES 

You  are  going  to  have  the  fever, 

Yellow  eyes! 

In  about  ten  days  from  now 
Iron  bands  will  clamp  your  brow ; 
Your  tongue  resemble  curdled  cream, 
A  rusty  streak  the  centre  seam ; 
Your  mouth  will  taste  of  untold  things, 
With  claws  and  horns  and  fins  and  wings ; 
Your  head  will  weigh  a  ton  or  more, 
And  forty  gales  within  it  roar! 

In  about  ten  days  from  now 

You  will  feebly  wonder  how 

All  your  bones  can  break  in  twain 

And  so  quickly  knit  again ! 

You  will  feel  a  score  of  Jaels 

In  your  temples  driving  nails ! 

You  will  wonder  if  you're  shot 

Through  the  liver-case,  or  what ! 

You  will  wonder  if  such  heat 

Isn't  Hades — and  repeat ! 

Then  you'll  sweat  until,  at  length, 

You — won't — have — a — kitten's — strength! 

In  about  ten  days  from  now 
Make  to  health  a  parting  bow ; 
For  you're  going  to  have  the  fever, 
Yellow  eyes! 
26  ' 


HE    HAS    GONE 

CLOSE  the  door — across  the  river 

He  has  gone ! 
With  an  abscess  on  his  liver 

He  has  gone! 

Many  years  of  rainy  seasons, 
And  malaria's  countless  treasons, 
Are  among  the  many  reasons 

Why  he's  gone ! 

Bind  the  wasted  jaw  up  lightly — 

He  has  gone ! 
Close  the  sunken  eyelids  tightly — 

He  has  gone ! 

Chinese  gin  from  Bottle  Alley 
Could  not  give  him  strength  to  rally — 
Lone  to  wander  in  Death  Valley 

He  has  gone ! 

In  his  best  clothes  we've  arrayed  him — 

He  has  gone ! 
In  a  wooden  box  we've  laid  him — 

He  has  gone ! 

Bogus  Hennessey  and  sherry 
With  his  system  both  made  merry — 
Very  hard  he  fought  them — very ! 

Yet  he's  gone! 
27 


Down  the  hill  we  tramp  once  more,  friends, 

He  has  gone ! 
Once  again  we've  seen  all  o'er,  friends, 

He  has  gone ! 

Let  us  hope  we  may  endure,  or, 
At  least,  our  taste  be  surer — 
Let  us  pray  the  liquor's  purer 

Where  he's  gone! 


28 


THE    PARADISE    OF    FOOLS 

NINETEEN  hundred  miles  from  home 
We  have  crossed  the  ocean's  foam ; 
Left  our  kin  and  comrades  dear, 
Shed  the  customary  tear ; 
Left  whatever  life  is  worth 
For  the  rummest  place  on  earth — 
For  the  Paradise  of  Fools. 

All  good  things  to  eat  and  drink, 
Left  for  what?    You'd  never  think  ! 
Tough  old  bull-beef,  mud-fed  swine, 
Store-made  liquors,  logwood  wine ! 
Every  blessed  day  the  same : 
Change  is  nothing  but  a  name 
In  the  Paradise  of  Fools. 

Recreation?    There  is  none; 
If  there  were,  'twould  weary  one! 
Innocence  and  sportiveness  ? 
Bitter  foes  and  nothing  less ! 
Cards  and  cocktails,  yes ;  galore ! 
Only  these,  and  nothing  more 
In  the  Paradise  of  Fools. 

Hold !    There's  one  thing  I  forget : 
Scandal  peddling's  left  us  yet ! 
God  knows,  there's  enough  of  that 
To  make  a  shrunken  mummy  fat  1 
29 


Be  the  subject  low  or  high, 
We  must  gossip — or  we  die 
In  the  Paradise  of  Fools. 

Yet  we're  happy,  blithe,  and  gay ; 
Else  we'd  go  away  and  stay! 
How  we  kick  and  squirm  and  shout 
O'er  attempts  to  drive  us  out ! 
We  are  all  content  to  dwell 
In  this  suburb  of — ah,  well ! 
In  the  Paradise  of  Fools. 


THE     BUSIEST    MAN 

OH,  don't  disturb  the  gentleman, 

He's  as  busy  as  can  be ! 
You  might  attract  his  notice  from 

Something  that  he  should  see. 
Just  touch  your  hat,  and  quickly  say, 

Good-morning  or,  Ta-ta, 
For  he's  got  to  run  the  universe — 

Colon  and  Panama! 

Pray,  think  of  what  he's  got  to  do, 

This  very  busy  man ! 
He's  got  the  biggest  kind  of  job, 

Just  match  it  if  you  can. 
He's  got  to  note  the  time  when  we 

Arise  to  start  the  day, 
And  he's  got  to  listen  carefully 

To  every  word  we  say. 

He's  got  to  watch  us  labor,  and 

He's  got  to  watch  us  play ; 
He's  got  to  know  what  debts  we  owe, 

And  why  we  cannot  pay ; 
He's  got  to  know  what  cost  the  clothes 

In  which  we  look  so  neat— 
The  necktie  and  the  hat  we  wear, 

And  the  shoes  upon  our  feet. 
31 


He's  got  to  see  us  at  our  meals, 

Know  what  we  eat  and  drink ; 
He's  got  to  know  what  books  we  read, 

As  well  as  what  we  think. 
If  we  sit  down  awhile  to  chat 

With  friends  of  many  years, 
He's  got  to  join  the  party  with 

His  all-absorbing  ears. 

If  we  to  town  go  for  a  walk 

When  sunset  ends  our  work, 
He's  got  to  sneak  round  corners  bleak, 

Or  in  dark  alleys  lurk, 
To  see  what  we  are  doing  here, 

Or  what  we're  doing  there, 
And  run  the  risk  of  fever  in 

The  evening's  heavy  air. 

He's  got  to  know  the  "  female  "  that 

"  Does  up  "  our  weekly  shirt ; 
(She  may  wear  diamonds  in  her  ears, 

Or  lace  upon  her  skirt !) 
Or,  if  one  has  that  wondrous  thing 

(That  doubtful  joy  of  life), 
He's  got  to  know  each  time  that  one 

Has  a  squabble  with  his  wife. 

He's  got  to  listen  to  the  tale 

Of  every  injured  soul ; 
Of  every  row  between  two  friends, 

He's  got  to  know  the  whole. 


Of  what  most  folks  talk  sparingly, 

He's  got  to  glibly  shout, 
And  run  like  lightning  up  and  down 

To  spread  it  all  about. 

He's  got  to  watch  the  Government, 

Each  corporation,  too; 
And  every  private  enterprise 

He's  got  to  carry  through. 
He's  got  to  keep  a-moving,  and 

Must  never  blink  his  eye, 
For  he's  got  to  have  his  finger  in 

Each  individual  pie! 

So  don't  disturb  the  gentleman — 

I'm  sure,  you  plainly  see 
That,  as  Mister  Gossip  is  his  name, 

He's  as  busy  as  can  be. 
Just  nod  your  head,  and  quickly  say, 

Good-morning  or,  Ta-ta, 
For  he's  got  to  run  the  universe — 

Colon  and  Panama! 


33 


WHILE  WE'RE  STILL  LIVING  ON 

THERE'S  a  gospel  that  I  fain  would  preach  as  to  the 

manner  born, 
To   all  ye   sons   of   wretchedness    from   temperate 

regions  torn; 
As   upon   the  torrid   isthmus,    heat-oppressed   and 

fever-worn, 

We  still  are  living  on ! 

'Tis  an  oft-repeated  message,  will  ye  never  give  it 
heed? 

Ninety  times  and  nine  tho'  it  hath  failed,  the  hun 
dredth  may  succeed ; 

So  let's  print  and  post  and  blazon  it,  that  he  who 
runs  may  read, 

While  we're  still  living  on! 

Speak   lightly  not   of   any   man,   and   guard  your 
neighbor's  fame ; 

For  others  prize  as  you  may  prize  a  fair,  unsullied 
name; 

And  while  criticising  others'  gaits,  you  may  your 
self  be  lame ! 

While  we're  still  living  on! 

An  honest  man's  an  honest  man  until  he's  proved 

a  thief; 
Never  yet  was  lasting  happiness  built  on  another's 

grief; 

34 


Let  us  bear  in  mind  of  Graces  three  that  Charity  is 
chief, 

While  we're  still  living  on! 

Thus,  in  our  brief  existence  in  this  land  of  sudden 

death, 
We  may  breathe,  perchance,  when  day  is  done,  a 

self-contented  breath; 
And  more  calmly  view  the  angel  when  toward  us 

he  wandereth ! 

While  we're  still  living  on! 


35 


THE    NAKED    BROWN    BABIES    OF 
BOLIVAR    STREET 

THO'  Destiny  holds  in  her  shadowy  hands 
Adventure  and  incident  for  us  to  meet, 

We'll  never  forget,  tho'  we  may  not  regret, 
The  naked  brown  babies  of  Bolivar  Street. 

The  crash  of  the  breakers,  the  lash  of  the  gale, 
The  thrash  of  the  rain  and  the  sun's  awful  heat, 

May  pass  from  us  all,  but  we'll  ever  recall 
The  naked  brown  babies  of  Bolivar  Street. 

The  idiom  local — that  shuffle  of  speech 

We  learn  ere  our  isthmus  instruction's  complete — 
We'll  lose  it — we  ought — yet  we'll  cling  to  the 
thought 

Of  the  naked  brown  babies  of  Bolivar  Street. 

The  pleasures  and  pains  of  the  present  and  past 
Our  sojourn  here  making  so  sad  or  so  sweet ; 

Tho'  all  fade  away,  thro'  the  memory  will  stray 
The  naked  brown  babies  of  Bolivar  Street. 

They  wade  in  the  puddles,  they  roll  in  the  dust, 
No  weather  can  ever  their  pleasure  defeat ; 

All  days  are  the  same !    Life  is  only  a  game 
To  the  naked  brown  babies  of  Bolivar  Street. 


DE    PROFUNDIS 

ALMIGHTY  Dispenser  of  good  things  and  ill, 

Purveyor  of  foods  that  delight  or  annoy ; 
Thou  that  doth  every  man's  little  cup  fill 

With  draughts  to  be  drained  of  sorrow  or  joy: 
Disgusted  we  come  to  the  Presence  to-day, 

Sans  flattering  speeches  of  moment  and  pith, 
But  simply  and  briefly  and  bluntly  to  say 

That  we  firmly  believe  that  Job  was  a  myth. 

We  are  weary  of  patience  and  all  of  that  cant 

About  love   that  can  chasten  love  gasping   for 

breath. 
We  are  minus  the  faith  that  can  cheerfully  rant 

Of  the  blessings  of  life  in  the  presence  of  death. 
We  do  not  believe  in  the  silver  that  lines 

The  horse-blanket   clouds   spread    above  us   for 

weeks, 
For  we  know  all  the  silver  is  safe  in  the  mines 

That  is  not  in  the  pockets  of  somebody's  breeks. 

We  are  weary  of  funerals,  weary  of  tears, 

We  are  weary  of  pushing  unpushable  walls ; 
We  are  weary  of  leveling  mountains  of  fears — 

Of  building  a  Hope  that  instantly  falls. 
We  have  given  to  Misery  more  than  her  half, 

We  have  rendered  to  Gloom   more  years  than 

are  his, 
We  have  moped  long  enough !  Great  God  let  us  laugh 

Before  we  forget  what  a  laugh  really  is ! 
37 


THE  WAIL  OF  THE   FORGOTTEN 
(1901) 

O  WE  are  the  people  whom  God  forgot 

In  eighteen  eighty-nine, 
When  Disaster  dropped  a  mighty  blot 

On  the  Frenchman's  grand  design. 

Then  Fire  and  Fever  and  Famine  came, 

A  triple  Incubus, 
And  dealing  the  cards  of  a  cut-throat  game, 

Sat  down  and  played  with  us. 

They've  won  in  the  past,  they're  winning  still, 

And  we  put  up  the  stakes ! 
Yet  play  we  must  and  play  we  will 

Until  the  last  heart  breaks. 

And  the  leaden  bowl  we  call  the  sky, 

Doth  back  the  echoes  throw 
Of  our  exceeding  bitter  cry  : — 

"  God  give  us  another  show !  " 


LA    C  AN  TIN  ERA 

(A    MEMORY    OF    JUNE,     1902) 

As  she  scrambled  down  from  the  transport's  deck. 

Her  figure  parodied  grace; 
Eighteen  at  the  most  and  a  physical  wreck, 
Yet  she  had  an  angel's  face ! 
From  head  to  foot 
Clung  dirt  like  soot — 
There  was  dirt  on  her  angel's  face. 
— Yes,  dirt  on  her  angel's  face ! 

Her  hair  in  inky  loops  hung  low, 

O'er  a  soldier's  canvas  coat, 
And  a  tattered  shift  yawned  wide  to  show 
A  short  and  sunburned  throat ! 
No  lingerie — 
We  all  could  see 

Her  short  and  sunburned  throat ! 
— Yes,  more  than  her  sunburned  throat! 

Her  dress — her  what  ?    She  had  no  dress ; 

Call  it  skirt  for  lack  of  a  name — 
(Tis  a  guess,  the  wildest  kind  of  a  guess) 
Put  shamelessness  to  shame ! 
So  scanty  and  torn, 
And  carelessly  worn, 
It  put  shamelessness  to  shame! 
— Yes,  shamelessness  to  shame ! 
39 


She  gathered  her  kit  and  passed  us  by, 

Foul  bedding  and  pots  and  bags ; 
A  babe  on  her  hip — another  one  nigh — 
Nakedness,  filth  and  rags ! 

On  the  endless  tramp 
From  camp  to  camp, 
In  nakedness,  filth  and  rags! 
— Yes,  nakedness,  filth  and  rags ! 

A  drab  and  a  drudge — a  regiment's  Thing 

To  abuse,  debauch,  debase ; 
And  yet — as  tho'  guarded  by  Beauty's  wing- 
Her  face  was  an  angel's  face! 
Tho'  sadly  bedimmed, 
'Twas  Beauty  who  limned 
The  lines  of  her  angel's  face ! 
< — Yes,  modelled  her  angel's  face ! 

What  of  it,  you  ask  ?    Oh,  nothing  but  this  ;- 

I  think  it  not  often  the  case 
That  one  clearly  beholds  in  ignorance,  bliss, 
And  'tis  proved  by  an  angel's  face ! 
For  ignorance 
Of  innocence, 

Shone  from  her  angel's  face ! 
— Yes,  gave  her  an  angel's  face ! 


40 


TO    THE    "CRAB"* 

COUGH  and  splutter,  clang  and  shriek, 
Day  and  night,  week  after  week ! 
Choke  with  smoke  the  passers  by, 
Fill  with  slack  the  public  eye ! 
Turn  your  squatty  drivers  round 
Fifty  times  each  foot  of  ground! 
Siss  and  sizzle,  gasp  and  jerk — 
Fools  will  think  you're  hard  at  work ! 

"  Pull  them  box-cars  up  the  track ! 
Wot  yer  doin' !    Push  'em  back !  " 

Don't  go  easy !    Let  'em  slam ! 
Now  then !    You  don't  care  a — clam ! 
Do  this  ten  score  times  a  day, 
Then  all  night — the  other  way ! 
Over  frogs  and  switches  leap, 
Don't  let  anybody  sleep! 
When  there's  nothing  else  in  sight 
Down  to  Christophe  take  a  flight ! 
Throw  her  over !    Let  her  fly ! 
You'll  catch  victims  by  and  by ! 
What  is  horse  or  coach  to  you ! 
Hit  a  man — now  hit  one !    Do ! 

That's  it!    Smash  him!    Grind  him  fine! 
Spread  his  blood  along  the  line ! 
Spread  it  even,  spread  it  thick ! 
Sand  may  slip  but  blood  will  stick! 

*  Local  name  for  switch  engine. 
41 


OUR    GURL    MARY 

SHE'S  the  "  chupidest  "  gurl  we  ever  knew, 

Is  our  gurl  Mary ; 
She  always  does  what  she  oughtn't  to, 

Does  our  gurl  Mary ; 
She's  lazier  far  than  Lethe's  stream — 
She  meanders  'round  in  one  long  dream — 
'Twould  take  a  Titan's  death-bed  scream 

To  wake  up  Mary! 

In  the  morning  at  our  coffee  time — 

"Mary,  OH,  Mary!" 
Our  hearts  sink  deep  in  damning  crime — 

"Mary!    Oh,  M-A-R-Y!" 
What  is  the  matter,  Mary  .  .  .  Dear! 
Been  looking  for  you  far  and  near ! 
'Most  eight  o'clock — no  coffee  here ! 

John  Rogers,  Mary ! 

Just  look  at  the  lid  of  that  coffee  pot 

Now  will  you,  Mary  ? 
Why  on  earth  can't  you  get  it  hot! 

Why  can't  you,  Mary! 
This  stuff's  cold  as  a  puppy's  nose, 
Or  a  lonely,  shivering,  early  rose 
That  blooms  in  the  snow  as  the  March  wind  blows ! 

Understand,  Mary? 
42 


Now  then,  Mary !    It  is  twelve  o'clock ! 

The  breakfast,  Mary ! 
Where  did  you  get  that  smudgy  frock — 

Good  Gracious,  Mary! 
Oh,  NO !  !    The  steak  comes  after  fish ! 
And,  Say !    We've  one  more  darling  wish : — 
Don't  serve  the  cheese  in  the  butter-dish ! 

Now  don't!    Don't,  Mary! 

Tea-time,  Mary !    You've  been  told  before, 

Haven't  you,  Mary  ? 
The  hour  is  Four — not  half-past  Four ! 

Fiddlesticks !     Mary ! 

"  No  biscuit  ?  "    Of  course !    Same  old  way ! 
Do  you  think  we're  here  to  hear  you  say : — 
"  De  biskit  finish  yisterday  ?  " 

Great  Heavens!    MARY! 

[Dinner-time,  every  day: — ] 

No  salt !    No  spoons !    Ice  if  you  please ! 

Mustard,  Mary! 
You've  spilled  the  gravy  on  my  knees ! 

N-E-V-E-R   M-I-N-D,  Mary! 
Oh,  let's  shut  down  the  blooming  mess  ! 
We'll  starve,  perhaps,  but  nevertheless 
Be  quit  of  the  fathomless  cussedness 

Of  our  gurl  Mary! 


43 


THAT    EXCELLENT    HEART 

How  often  we  hear  some  kind  critic  inveigh 

Against  some  one — not  present,  you  know ! 
How  he'd  have  done  this  thing  a  far  different  way, 

And  that  thing  have  done  so  and  so. 
He  will  analyze  closely  each  venial  sin, 

Each  motive  or  speech  tear  apart ; 
Then,  suddenly  conscious,  will  deftly  slip  in 

The  cant  of  the  excellent  heart ! 

The  absent  one's  clothes  he  will  oft  criticise — 

They  are  either  too  coarse  or  too  fine ; 
Profoundly  he'll  gabble  and  look  very  wise 

O'er  some  fellow's  fondness  for  wine. 
Like  a  Guayaquil  parrot,  he'll  chatter  all  day, 

Down  Ruin's  road  every  one  start ; 
Then,  rememb'ring  himself,  have  something  to  say 

Of  the  undoubtedly  excellent  heart ! 

The  absent  one  thinks  that  the  critic's  his  friend, 

For  he's  eaten  his  bread  and  his  salt, 
And  will  lend  him  his  money  if  he  has  it  to  lend — 

For  he's  generous,  is  he,  to  a  fault. 
But  the  critic  is  blind  to  all  virtues,  be  sure, 

Save  when  they  add  gall  to  his  dart ; 
But  one  balm  does  he  offer  his  back-wounds  to  cure ; 

Oh,  I  am  sick  of  that  excellent  heart ! 


44 


THE    MAN    WHO    IS    ALWAYS    RIGHT 

'Tis  oh,  for  the  might  of  a  master  mind 

And  the  grace  of  a  gifted  pen! 
That  Apollo's  lyre  and  Sappho's  fire 

Might  be  awaked  again, 
To  suggest  the  choicest  thoughts  and  words, 

To  assist,  direct,  indite, 
And  to  make  the  song  remembered  long 

Of  the  man  who  is  always  right ! 

Oh,  beloved  of  all  the  gods  is  he, 

The  most  fortunate  of  men! 
And  many  of  us  are  envious, 

In  spite  of  Commandment  Ten, 
As  we  see  him  glance  serenely  down 

From  his  moral,  mental  height, 
And  note  the  smile,  so  free  from  guile, 

Of  the  man  who  is  always  right ! 

His  virtue,  like  Saint  Anthony's, 

Is  ninety  above  proof ! 
From  cards  and  drinks  he  wisely  shrinks, 

And  holds  himself  aloof! 
He  has  no  venial  weaknesses, 

His  soul  is  spotless,  white; 
Vice  leaves  no  trace  on  the  tranquil  face 

Of  the  man  who  is  always  right ! 


There  is  nothing  that  he  does  not  know 

All,  everything  about! 
O'er  questions  vexed  he  is  ne'er  perplexed, 

Nor  troubled  with  a  doubt ! 
His  ipse  dicta  clouds  dispel 

As  the  day  o'ercomes  the  night ; 
Oh,  the  happiest  man  since  the  world  began 

Is  the  man  who  is  always  right ! 

There  is  hope  of  a  tree  if  it  be  cut  down, 

There  is  hope  for  the  withered  grass ! 
There  is  hope  on  the  deck  of  a  storm-toss'd 
wreck, 

But  no  hope  for  us,  alas ! 
We  are  doomed  to  be  always  in  the  wrong, 

And  to  linger  'neath  the  blight 
Of  the  chilly  air  and  frosty  glare 

Of  the  man  who  is  always  right ! 


46 


A     PANAMA     LULLABY 

LULLABY,  lullaby,  child  of  the  morning, 

List  to  the  matin  bells  hailing  the  day ; 
See  the  sun  blithely  the  cloudlets  adorning, 

Ere  beginning  his  journey  from  far  down  the  bay. 
Lovingly,  tenderly,  each  cloud  caressing 

With  glances  of  love-light  and  fingers  of  gold, 
For  each  one  doth  hold  for  my  darling  a  blessing, 

That  each  hour  of  the  day  shall  gently  unfold. 

Lullaby,  lullaby,  child  of  the  even, 

List  to  the  vesper  bells  closing  the  day; 
See  the  moon  marshal  the  star-hosts  of  heaven 

Ere  beginning  her  journey  from  far  down  the  bay. 
Lovingly,  tenderly,  each  star  caressing 

With  glances  of  love-light  and  fingers  of  gold ; 
For  each  one  doth  hold  for  my  darling  a  blessing, 

That  each  hour  of  the  night  shall  gently  unfold. 

Oh,  child  of  the  dawning,  child  of  the  gloaming, 

Light  of  my  spirit  and  pride  of  my  heart ! 
Down  into  dreamland  go  fearlessly  roaming : 

Thy  heart  from  my  bosom  shall  ne'er  be  apart. 
By  day  and  by  night  I  will  guard  thee  securely — 

Thy  life  is  my  life,  my  glorious  boy — 
In  my  arms  slumbering — guilelessly,  purely, 

Thou'rt  God's  choicest  gift  and  man's  greatest  joy ! 


47 


A    TROPIC    NOCTURNE 

Now  the  waves  are  softly  murmuring  their  evening 
hymn  of  praise, 

And  the  fleecy  clouds  are  listening  in  the  stars'  pris 
matic  rays ; 

All  the  palms  are  gently  nodding  in  the  moon's 
argental  light, 

And  the  tireless  loom  of  Time  fast  weaves  the  royal 
robe  of  Night. 

Out  upon  the  sheeny  waters  rides  a   snowy-sailed 

canoe, 
And  the  boatman  chants  an  Ave,  bidding  vanished 

day  adieu; 
Crooning  cradle-songs  of  Ocean  weary  souls  to  rest 

invite, 
And  the  drowsy  Evening  falls  asleep  upon  the  breast 

of  Night. 

Deep  and  deeper  grows  the  purple  of  the  distant 
mountain  range; 

Stars  and  waters,  palms  and  moonbeams  loving 
benisons  exchange; 

In  the  hush  of  drooping  silence,  with  resistless, 
tender  might, 

Reigns,  serene  in  her  omnipotence,  the  goddess- 
empress  Night. 

48 


SAN    LORENZO 

CLOUD-CRESTED  San  Lorenzo  guards 

The  Chagres'  entrance  still, 
Tho'  o'er  each  stone  dense  moss  hath  grown, 

And  earth  his  moat  doth  fill. 
His  bastions,  feeble  with  decay, 

Steadfastly  view  the  sea, 
And  sternly  wait  the  certain  fate 

The  ages  shall  decree. 

His  reservoir  is  filled  with  slime, 

Where  noxious  insects  breed; 
Corroding  rust  its  greedy  lust 

On  shot  and  gun  doth  feed ; 
The  moaning  wind  sobs  dismally 

Thro'  crumbling  port  and  hold ; 
The  staring  owl  and  reptile  foul 

Thrive  on  his  donjon's  mold. 

Left  there,  a  sentry  lone  to  strive 

Against  some  Morgan's  crew — 
To  guard  our  wives'  and  children's  lives 

Should  the  past  itself  renew ; 
To  breast  and  buffet  every  storm, 

To  falter  not  nor  fail ; 
His  charge  to  keep ;  nor  toil  nor  sleep 

Against  him  to  prevail. 
49 


Still  standeth  San  Lorenzo  there, 

Aye  faithful  at  his  post, 
Tho'  scoffing  trees  in  every  breeze 

Their  prime  and  vigor  boast. 
His  garrison  is  but  the  shades 

Of  soldiers  of  the  past, 
But  it  pleaseth  him,  alone  and  grim, 

To  watch  until  the  last ! 


OUR    LITTLE    LANDSCAPE 

ACROSS  the  little  landscape  of  our  lives 

The  shadows  of  the  whole  world  seem  to  flit ; 

Ere  one  departs  another  one  arrives, 
So  limited,  so  very  small  is  it. 

The  passions  of  the  universe  crowd  here — 

Here  gather  Love  and  Joy  and  Hate  and  Pain 

The  first  fall  ill,  soon  leave  us  with  a  tear; 
The  last,  at  once  acclimatized,  remain. 

From  East  to  West  'tis  scarce  a  tenth  degree, 
This  parallelogram  whereon  we  dwell ; 

'Tis  only  fifty  miles  from  sea  to  sea, 

But  far  from  heaven,  far  too  close  to  hell ! 


THE    WANING    MOON 

HERE'S  a  health  to  the  waning  moon,  my  boys, 

To  the  waning  tropical  moon ! 
She  smiles  us  her  blessing,  tho'  faint,  'tis  sincere, 

'Twill  be  nearer  and  clearer  soon ! 
So  gather  around  me,  your  glasses  fill  high ! 
Anger  and  worry !    Come,  let  them  go  by ! 
Here's  hoping  you  never,  no,  never  may  die! 

And  a  health  to  the  waning  moon ! 

She  leaves  us  a  time,  but  returns  soon  again 

In  fresh  and  more  gorgeous  array ! 
And  so  will  our  sorrows,  in  far  different  guise, 

As  joys  gladden  some  coming  day ! 
Then  stand  to  me  steady,  and  smile  thro'  your  tears ! 
Pluck  up  your  courage,  and  banish  your  fears ! 
Here's  hoping  all  happiness  thousands  of  years, 

And  a  health  to  the  waning  moon ! 


THE    NEVER-FAILING    FRIEND 

You  have  days,  yes,  weeks  of  loneliness  that  never 

seem  to  end, 
When  you're  sure  the  world's  against  you,  and  you 

haven't  got  a  friend ; 
You  are  weary  and  discouraged,  and  you  wish  the 

fight  was  o'er, 
For  your  heart  is  almost  bursting,  and  your  soul  is 

sick  and  sore. 

There's  no  music  in  the  billows,  there's  no  balm 

upon  the  breeze  ; 
There's  no  gladness  in  the  sunlight — only  sadness  in 

the  trees! 
Life  has  grown  to  be  a  burden  that  you  can  no 

longer  bear, 
Or  an  ever-changing  puzzle  that  you  give  up  in 

despair. 

Then  it  is  some  fellow  tells  you  that  he's  always  been 
your  friend; 

Swears  you  know  it — that  he's  proved  it  on  occa 
sions  without  end! 

That  once  more  he's  going  to  do  so — if  you'll  never 
breathe  a  word — 

Then  repeats  some  nasty  gossip  that  about  you  he 
has  heard! 

53 


Lord  preserve  us,  or  we  perish !     We  can't  stand  it 

very  long! 
We  are  growing  weak  and  weaker,  and  the  pressure's 

growing  strong! 
Order  up  thy  mightiest  cannons,  and  the  trembling 

walls  defend, 
For  they're  tottering  'neath  the  onslaughts  of  the 

never-failing  friend. 


54 


KING      FEVER 

HE'S  ruler  of  rulers  o'er  all  the  earth, 
King  Fever  is  his  name! 

From  the  monarch  grown  gray  to  the  prince  at  his 
birth, 

King  Fever  is  his  name! 

Before  him,  emperor,  sultan,  and  czar, 

President,  pontiff,  mikado,  and  shah, 

Caliph  and  mandarin  powerless  are, 

King  Fever  is  his  name! 

All,  all  must  approach  him  with  sceptreless  hands, 
King  Fever  is  his  name! 

For  his  are  their  subjects,  their  crowns  and  their 
lands, 

King  Fever  is  his  name! 

His  are  their  diadems,  jewels  and  wealth; 

Naught   can    they   hide    from    him,    sly   tho'   their 
stealth ; 

Heirs  or  inheritance,  beauty  or  health, 
King  Fever  is  his  name! 

Then  hail !    All  hail,  to  the  Great  Socialist ! 

King  Fever  is  his  name! 
Whose  levelling  power  none  can  resist, 

King  Fever  is  his  name! 

Whose  might  can  demolish  the  whole  Chinese  Wall, 
And  round  our  poor  craniums  rebuild  it  all — 
Whose  flames  burn  alike  the  great  and  the  small — 

King  Fever  is  his  name! 

55 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    MOSQUITO 

IN  Hades'  blackest  corner 

A  murky  river  flows ; 
No  imp  knows  whence  it  cometh, 

No  devil  where  it  goes. 
'Twas  in  its  noisome  vapor 

That  Satan  watched  my  birth, 
And  just  through  simple  kindness 

I  winged  my  way  to  earth. 

I'm  a  very  small  mosquito, 

In  Aspinwall  I  dwell ; 
By  days  I'm  inoffensive, 

But  nights  I'm  merry — well, 
I  tune  my  tiny  fiddle, 

I  sound  my  tiny  gong, 
And  make  folks'  lives  a  burden 

With  the  burden  of  my  song ! 

My  touch  is  light  and  downy— 

They  know  not  I  am  there 
Till  ziml  what  howls  and  curses! 

Tis  laughable,  I  swear ! 
I  draw  my  little  dagger, 

I  cock  my  little  eye, 
And  make  the  meekest  Christian 

Hate  God,  and  wish  to  die ! 


"NO    ICE" 

(A   LITANY   OF   THIRST) 

FROM  a  lowly  latitude, 
Seeking  Thy  beatitude ; 
From  a  long-forgotten  spot, 
From  creation's  darkest  blot, 
Comes  a  sound  of  rushing  tears. 
Doth  no  other  reach  Thine  ears  ? 
Listen,  Lord! 

Turn  Thy  head !     Look  West — look  South ! 
Canst  Thou  see  the  Chagres'  mouth  ? 
Yes!    Look  there — below  it — there! 
Thro'  the  mist  that  fouls  the  air, 
Thro'  malaria's  noisome  veil, 
Hear'st  Thou  not  the  frenzied  wail  ? 
Listen,  Lord! 

There,  beneath  the  starry  cross — 
Emblem  of  Thy  self-planned  loss! 
There,  where  in  his  burning  hand, 
Satan  clutches  sea  and  land, 
Pilgrims,  fainting  with  despair, 
Hoarsely  iterate  one  prayer : 
Listen,  Lord! 

Cringing,  shrinking,  kneeling  there, 
Thro'  scorching  night  and  midday  glare; 
57 


Craving  only  that  Thy  grace 
May  assign  their  plea  a  place; 
Of  Thy  largess  asking  naught 
Save  the  boon  that  Dives  sought 
Listen,  Lord! 


THE    SAND-FLY 

OH,  Lord !    Oh,  Nature !    Oh,  whatever  be 

The  power  properly  addressed, 
I  pray  thee  humbly — pray  on  bended  knee — 

Grant  this  one  plea,  deny  the  rest ! 

'Tis  little  that  I  ask  from  out  the  store 

Of  blessings  in  thy  right  to  give ; 
And  surely  thou  dost  daily  waste  much  more 

On  folks  less  fit  than  I  to  live ! 

I  crave  but  this :   That  from  the  different  kinds 
Of  insects  cursing  night  and  day— 

(The  entomologist  claims  that  he  finds 
Five  hundred  thousand,  so  they  say)  — 

Thou  wilt  at  once  destroy,  annihilate, 

Permit  no  longer  to  exist — 
Efface,  cut  off,  rub  out,  obliterate 

The  pesky  sand-fly  from  the  list ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  PRICKLY  HEAT 

WITH  face  drawn  into  a  scowl, 

With  teeth  well  into  his  tongue, 
Perspiring,  like  any  old  leaky  pump, 
Squirmed  a  man  no  longer  young. 
Scratch,  scratch,  scratch, 
From  forehead  down  to  feet ! 
And  still  tho'  his  voice  with  anger  rang, 
'Mid  grunts  and  curses  he  hoarsely  sang 
This  song  of  the  prickly  heat ! 

Itch,  itch,  itch, 
Till  night  drives  the  day  away ! 

Itch,  itch,  itch, 

Till  day  drives  the  night  away ! 
Arms  and  stomach  and  legs, 
Neck  and  ankles  and  back, 
Digging  them  all  till  they  scorch  and  bleed, 
From  one  to  the  other  with  lightning  speed, 
Like  a  demented  jumping-jack! 

Oh,  'tis  off  with  your  coat  and  vest ! 
'Tis  off  with  your  shoes  and  pants ! 
Till,  naked  and  bare,  your  skin  you  tear 
In  a  wild  Saint  Vitus  dance ! 
Scratch,  scratch,  scratch, 
With  ever-waxing  ire! 
While  into  each  pore  a  needle  darts, 
And  the  cuticle  burns  and  shrivels  and  smarts, 
Like  blisters  of  hell's  own  fire ! 
60 


Itch,  itch,  itch, 
While  the  months  a-whirling  go ! 

Itch,  itch,  itch, 
As  the  years  to  decades  grow ! 
Oh,  God,  for  a  moment's  rest ! 
Or,  if  I  can't  be  granted  that, 
In  one  spot  quench  the  teasing  flame, 
Or  blot  that  spot  from  my  tortured  frame — 
The  spot  that  I  can't  get  at. 

With  face  drawn  into  a  scowl, 

With  teeth  well  into  his  tongue, 
Perspiring,  like  any  old  leaky  pump, 
Squirmed  a  man  no  longer  young. 
Scratch,  scratch,  scratch, 
From  forehead  down  to  feet! 
And  still  tho'  his  voice  with  anger  rang 
(I  wonder  himself  he  doesn't  hang!) 
'Mid  grunts  and  curses  he  hoarsely  sang 
This  song  of  the  prickly  heat ! 


61 


SONG     OF     THE     MISANTHROPE 

OH_,  I'm  a  sullen  misanthrope, 

A  hater  of  my  kind ; 
Man's  faults,  as  thro'  a  microscope, 

Wax  large  within  my  mind. 
Each  sin  that  others  trifling  think 

To  me  is  great,  indeed ; 
And  crimes  from  which  most  people  shrink 

My  taste  for  misery  feed. 

In  every  eye  I  plainly  see 

The  evil  lurking  there; 
Beneath  each  gentle  voice  to  me 

Appears  a  guileful  snare. 
In  hand-clasps  smooth  hypocrisy 

I  always  can  detect, 
And  e'en  a  hat  doffed  courteously 

But  envy  doth  reflect. 

All  tenderness  is  selfishness, 

That  veils  some  low  desire ; 
And  purity  to  me  is  less 

Than  vileness  in  the  mire. 
And  lofty  thoughts,  he,  he,  ho,  ho, 

What  sport  they  give  to  me! 
Their  sire  is  Vanity,  I  know ! 

Still  lives  the  Pharisee! 
62 


Each  weakness  human  nature  shows 

Is  meat  and  drink  for  me, 
And  o'er  man's  many  wrongs  and  woes 

I  laugh  in  hearty  glee! 
'Twas  Malice  who  wrote  Friendship's  laws, 

With  Spite,  her  sister  elf ! 
I  hate  my  fellow-man  because 

I'm  hateful  to  myself! 


A    MARVEL 

"  The  body  of  a  man  weighing  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  pounds 
contains  forty-six  quarts  of  water."  — Curious  Facts. 

WHAT  ?    Forty-six  quarts  of  water 

To  eleven  stone  of  man? 
You're  wrong  in  your  figures,  Mister, 

If  you  talk  of  an  Isthmian ! 
Come  down  and  live  in  the  tropics, 

And  perspire  a  year  or  two ; 
Then  alter  your  calculations 

Till  they're  somewhat  nearer  true! 

Instead  of  quarts  say  gallons — 

And  even  then  you'll  be 
Full  many  a  cask  found  lacking 

Of  the  proper  quantity ! 
Why,  bless  your  soul  and  body, 

When  the  sun  shines  after  a  show'r, 
Most  men  will  sweat  a  hogshead 

Of  water  in  an  hour! 

And  therein  lies  the  marvel, 

If  one  stops  to  think  awhile; 
'Tis  a  puzzle  where  it  comes  from 

In  such  a  liquid  pile ! 
Is't  the  dampness  of  the  climate, 

Or  something  far  more  queer? 
One  thing  is  mighty  certain  : 

Folks  don't  drink  water  here ! 
64 


GEOGRAPHICAL 

WHERE  the  longitude's  mean  and  the  latitude's  low, 
Where  the  hot  winds  of  summer  perennially  blow, 
Where  the  mercury  chokes  the  thermometer's  throat, 
And  the  dust  is  as  thick  as  the  hair  on  a  goat, 
Where  one's  mouth  is  as  dry  as  a  mummy  accurst — 
There  lieth  the  Land  of  Perpetual  Thirst. 


EPIGRAM 

To  be  clever  's  a  very  fine  thing  no  doubt 
And  goodness  is  something  to  sigh  for ; 

To  be  clever  and  good — that  lets  us  out, 
So  decency  's  all  we  can  try  for ! 


66 


HE'LL    NEVER    DIE 

ON  gloomy  Styx's  banks  I  stand, 
Great  crowds  are  passing  over ; 

And  patiently  I  watch  and  wait 
One  party  to  discover. 

The  ferry  daily  busier  grows — 

Old  Charon  shakes  with  laughter- 
Yet  vainly  do  I  seek  the  face 

Of  the  man  whose  luck  I'm  after ! 


WHEN  THE  TRADE-WIND  BLOWS  AGAIN 

MANY  suns  will  lag  and  loiter  from  the  Blue  Hills  to 
the  sea, 

Dragging  lengthening  days  behind  them  to  the 
vague  eternity; 

Many  moons  will  arch  their  crescents  over  forest, 
field,  and  fen 

Ere  the  storm-clouds  cease  to  lower  and  the  trade- 
wind  blows  again. 

But  he's  coming,  oh,  he's  coming,  tho'  he's  long 
upon  the  way! 

We'll  forget  the  weary  waiting  when  he  bounds 
across  the  bay ! 

He's  been  trafficking  with  Boreas  within  his  chilly 
den, 

And  we'll  profit  by  his  bargains  when  the  trade- 
wind  blows  again. 

He  is  roaming  thro'  the  piney  woods,  and  storing 
up  the  scent ! 

He  is  bottling  for  us  perfumes  that  no  chemist  can 
invent ! 

He's  exploring  vale  and  mountain,  lilied  lake  and 
mossy  glen 

For  the  presents  he  will  bring  us  when  the  trade- 
wind  blows  again. 

68 


He  is  scouring  round  for  ozone — simply  cramming 
all  his  trunks 

With  the  precious  stuff  to  heave  at  us  in  large  and 
luscious  chunks ! 

Talk  about  the  gifts  of  Sheba  to  the  luckiest  of  men, 

Why,  they  won't  be  in  it,  brother,  when  the  trade- 
wind  blows  again ! 


09 


TO    BLAME?" 


HE  was  to  blame,  you  say,  sir? 

Now,  just  look  here,  my  friend, 
Don't  you  think  your  criticisms 

The  ears  of  Christ  offend  ? 
'Twas  He  who  once  said,  Judge  not ! 

And  He  alone  can  tell 
Whose  "  negligence  "  occasioned 

The  loss  of  the  Moselle. 

"Neglect?"    Oh,  yes,  'tis  easy 

For  lubbers  just  like  you 
To  spin  out  yarns  in  fathoms, 

And  for  fools  to  think  'em  true ! 
Who  taught  you  navigation  ? 

How  long  have  you  been  to  sea  ? 
You  don't  know  port  from  starboard, 

Or  weather  side  from  lee! 

The  facts  are  these:  Our  captain 

Was  new  upon  this  coast, 
But  a  better  man  nor  braver 

The  whole  line  couldn't  boast ! 
He  knew  his  business,  too,  sir, 

As  well  as  it  could  be  known, 
But  he  couldn't  run  the  currents 

Or  storms  of  the  Torrid  Zone! 
70 


The  course  he  set  's  been  sailed  on 

For  more  than  a  hundred  trips 
By  a  hundred  different  captains, 

Who  haven't  lost  their  ships! 
Who  sent  the  gale  that  swept  us 

With  lightning  speed  ahead? 
Who  sent  the  sea  like  mountains 

And  the  darkness  of  the  dead  ? 

I'll  bet  my  next  month's  wages 

You've  lost  your  way  on  shore ! 
At  sea,  and  in  a  tempest, 

Is  a  damned  sight  different  score! 
How's  man  to  sight  his  headlands 

When  God  obscures  the  view? 
I'd  like  to  have  an  answer — 

Who'll  tell  me,  sir — can  you? 

He's  dead ! — a  hero,  too,  sir, 

If  ever  there  was  one ! 
He  died  to  do  his  duty — 

What  more  could  he  have  done? 
"  To  blame?  "     He  paid  the  forfeit! 

And  Jesus  always  lets 
The  punishment  fall  lightly 

On  a  man  who  pays  his  debts ! 


ON    RONCADOR 

No  more  the  boatswain's  pipe  shall  call 

To  quarters  on  her  deck ! 
On  Roncador,  on  Roncador 

She  lies — a  lonely  wreck! 
No  more  shall  bugler  colors  sound, 

Nor  tuneful  taps  shall  play ! 
On  Roncador,  on  Roncador, 

In  silence  ends  the  day ! 

No  more  shall  curious  visitor 

Be  shown  her  famous  gun ! 
On  Roncador,  on  Roncador, 

Her  guerdon  she  hath  won ! 
Haul  down  the  flag  left  flying  there — 

No  record  let  there  be 
Of  how  we  lost  on  Roncador 

Our  veteran  of  the  sea ! 

Tis  better  thus  to  lay  away 

A  memory  of  the  past, 
Whose  strife  hath  ended  in  a  peace 

Forevermore  to  last! 
Rest  on,  thou  brave  old  Kearsarge,  rest ! 

The  waves  that  round  thee  surge 
Shall  on  the  shore  of  Roncador 

For  ages  chant  thy  dirge! 


THE    VISIT 

WHILE  the  planets  sang  together 

At  this  old  world's  birth, 
Beauty  loosed  her  golden  fetters — 

Winged  her  way  to  earth. 
Hither,  thither,  free  she  rambled 

Over  sea  and  land; 
Aimlessly  she  gaily  wandered 

To  far  Carib's  strand. 


On  the  laughing  trade-wind's  bosom 

Came  she  to  entrance 
Into  brightness  all  things  gloomy 

Simply  by  her  glance. 
She  draped  the  palm,  festooned  the  lily, 

Gave  the  sky  its  hue — 
Santa  Rita  looming  distant, 

Robed  in  wondrous  blue. 


Kissed  the  pear,  smiled  on  the  mango, 

Decked  the  pine  with  fringe, 
Dyed  the  orange  and  banana 

With  the  sunlight's  tinge. 
Flitted  thro'  the  tangled  forest, 

Strewing  fragrance  rare, 
And  where'er  she  paused  a  moment, 

Placed  an  orchid  there. 

73 


Graced  the  slender,  swaying  bamboo, 

Crowned  the  cottonwood ; 
Ferns  and  crotons  sprang-  around  her 

As  she  smiling  stood. 
Birds  and  blossoms  dressed  in  prisms 

Her  handiwork  caressed— 
Then  sped  on  her  journey,  leaving 

Man  alone  unblessed ! 


74 


A    NEW    YEAR'S    RAINBOW 

IT  rose  this  morning  out  of  the  sea, 

Just  as  the  sun  was  peeping, 
With  glances  bright  at  the  distant  night 

That  still  in  the  West  was  sleeping. 
The  rain  that  in  the  sombre  dawn 

Like  tears  from  the  clouds  was  falling 
Had  passed  away  while  the  god  of  day 

The  darkness  was  enthralling. 

And  it  said,  "  Faint  heart,  take  cheer !  Take  cheer, 

And  behold  the  sign  and  token 
I  bring  to  thee  from  over  the  sea, 

Of  the  promise  never  broken ! 
The  grief  I  follow  shall  ne'er  return : 

Oh,  list  to  my  joyous  message! 
Dost  thou  not  know  that  my  gleaming  bow 

Of  a  glad  New  Year  is  presage?  " 


75 


THE  COMRADES  OF  THE   PLEASANT 
PAST 

THE  comrades  of  the  pleasant  past, 
The  cronies  of  our  halcyon  days, 

Aside  frail  friendship's  ties  have  cast, 
And  journeyed  their  appointed  ways. 

Some  in  the  land  that  gave  them  birth 
Our  very  names  have  long  forgot ; 

Some,  wanderers  upon  the  earth, 
'Mid  other  scenes  recall  us  not. 

Out  yonder  on  the  fateful  hill, 

Where  erst  we  laid  them  down  to  rest, 

Some,  unremembered,  slumber  still, 
In  earth's  embrace  more  surely  blest. 

And  some,  although  they  linger  here, 
Have  sought  and  found  environment, 

Where,  to  our  hearts  tho'  ever  near, 
Far  from  our  homes  they  woo  content. 

The  welcome  bond,  the  willing  chain, 
We  fondly  forged  in  passion's  glow, 

Their  fancied  strength  could  not  maintain ; 
We  thought  them  steel :  we  find  them  tow ! 


Thus  ever  ends  the  pretty  play 
We  act  on  life's  capricious  stage; 

Once  learned,  we  fling  old  parts  away, 
And  con  new  roles  from  fresher  page. 

All  love,  like  filmiest  gossamer, 
Is  transient  as  the  clouds  above : 

Soon  lost  among  the  things  that  were, 
Save  love  of  self  and  mother-love! 


77 


TO    MNEMOSYNE 

On  the  other  side  of  Jordan, 
In  the  green  -fields  of  Eden, 
Where  the  Tree  of  Life  is  blooming, 
There  is  rest  for  me. 

Draw  aside  thy  magic  curtain, 

Memory ! 
Once  again  my  native  country 

I  would  see — 

Once  again  behold  the  village 
Down  beside  the  sweeping  river 
That  was  once  the  River  Jordan 

Unto  me. 

Draw  thy  veil  till  days  of  childhood 

Are  in  sight ! 
Hold  it  ...  till  mine  eyes  are  'customed 

To  the  light — 

To  the  light  that  once  did  show  them 
The  meadow  fields  of  clover 
That  were  Green  Fields  of  Eden, 

Wonder-bright. 

Let  me  walk  again  the  forest, 

Goddess  kind! 
And  the  mighty  silver-maple 

I  shall  find, 

78 


That,  with  branches  spreading  splendor, 
As  I  gazed  in  awe  and  rapture, 
Seemed  the  Tree  of  Life  in  blossom, 
To  my  mind. 

I  would  go  again  to  meeting, 

Memory ! 
Would  my  heart  not  burn  within  me, 

Could  it  be ! 

From  the  high  pew  in  the  corner, 
Hear  the  congregation  singing, 
"  There  is  rest  for  the  weary — 

Rest  for  me !  " 

There  is  rest  for  the  weary, 
There  is  rest  for  the  weary, 
There  is  rest  for  the  weary, 

There  is  rest  for  me! 


79 


B.C.      2  OOO 

I  KNEW  thee  then.     Semiramis  was  Queen 
Who  stripped  the  foliage  from  the  lettuce  leaf 
And  asked  Cambyses  if  he  thought  the  green 
More  handsome,  or  the  stalk — the  barren  sheaf. 
Ah,  those  were  cruel  days !    Men  loved  and  killed 
Their  loves ;  and  women  hired  assassins  fell 
To  clear  the  path  that,  strong  and  stubborn-willed, 
They  wished  to  follow,  were  it  ill  or  well. 
Yet  those  were  days  of  sweetness,  too ;  I  think 
As  sweet  as  any  I  have  known  thro'  all 
My  many  lives,  since  first  upon  the  brink 
Of  Chaos  standing,  Eros  heard  my  call 
And  led  me  trembling  from  the  dread  abyss, 
Through  forests  scarce  attained  to  leafy  growth, 
Nine  days  afar,  to  where  the  waters  kiss 
The  setting  sun  and  plight  their  nightly  troth. 


Thy  hair  was  then  the  raven  tint  that  now 
Absorbs  the  light  and  gladdens  with  its  glow 
The  eyes  that  'neath  a  smooth  uplifting  brow 
A  deathless  spirit,  dauntless  purpose  show. 
— Blue  eyes  were  then  unknown :  they  of  the  cold 
And  heartless  North  were  bred,  as  toward  the  Pole 
The  earth  grew  warmer  and  the  years  grew  old. 
We  were  too  soon  for  azure  self-control ! 

80 


Thy  form  the  same :  so  slight,  and  yet  not  slight, 
Save  as  the  willow-branch  the  tempest  bends 
But  cannot  break,  is  slight.    And,  as  her  right, 
The    dwelling-place    whence    Grace    her    influence 

sends — 

Her  chosen  palace,  undivided  throne! 
And  all  the  charm  of  manner  and  of  mind — 
The  nameless  atmosphere,  distinctive,  lone, 
That  those  long  years  agone  I  found,  I  find. 

I  would  that  I  might  call  again  on  Thought 

To  map  before  mine  inward  eye  the  scene 

Of    those    fair    years    when    we    for    Knowledge 

sought — 

When  I  was  still  thy  subject,  thou  the  Queen! 
Much  would  I  thank  the  gods  that  know — 
They  of  the  Power — Ancient  of  the  Days — 
If  once  again  the  inky  pool  would  show 
The  well-loved  picture  to  my  raptured  gaze. 

Yet  still  I  am  content — almost  content — 

To  know,  or  even  think  I  know,  to  thee 

There  strays  a  thought  of  those  days  fondly  spent. 

To  know  I  knew  Thee  then — thou  knewest  Me ! 


81 


OUR    UNCLE    SAM 

ONE  hundred  and  twenty-nine  years  ago, 

This  was  a  memorable  day : 
In  the  swaddling-cloth  of  starry  flag, 

Our  Uncle  Samuel  lay! 

The  Lords  of  the  North,  the  Kings  of  the  East, 

The  royal  rulers  of  earth, 
All  watched  from  afar  with  curious  eyes, 

The  infant  prodigy's  birth. 

They  watched  him  fight  for  the  right  to  live, 
They  saw  him  win  pow'r  and  pelf, 

And — to  conquer  his  weakness  and  be  a  man — 
They  saw  him  fight  with  himself! 

And  yet  again  they  watched  him  fight 

In  a  neighbor's  righteous  cause, 
And  they  see  that  neighbor  free  to-day, 

Under  her  people's  laws ! 

O  great  indeed  is  our  Uncle  Sam 
And  his  greatness  ne'er  shall  cease ! 

For  greatest  of  all  his  conquests  won, 
Are  his  victories  of  peace ! 

A  Nation  given  to  the  world, 

A  giant's  task  begun, 
Show  what  our  Uncle  Sam  can  do 

In  an  orbit  of  the  sun. 
82 


Ten  years  from  date  he'll  amputate 

The  Western  Hemisphere, 
And  Siamese  the  mighty  seas 

To  bring  the  distant  near ! 

'Tis  said  his  nieces  and  nephews  boast 

Too  much  their  relationship ; 
But  who'll  condemn  us,  this  Day  of  Days, 

If  our  good  manners  trip. 

For  from  Plymouth  Rock  to  the  Golden  Gate, 

From  Alaska's  snowy  clime, 
From  the  sunny  shores  of  the  southern  gulf, 

There  comes  a  song  sublime ! 

From  the  Occident,  and  the  far-away  isles 

That  gem  the  Orient  sea, 
There  swells  to-day  that  song  of  songs : — 

"  MY  COUNTRY  'TIS  OF  THEE!  " 

Arid  so,  with  loving,  loyal  hearts, 

We  drain  the  sparkling  dram 
To  the  glorious  toast  heard  'round  the  world  :- 

GOD   BLESS   OUR  UNCLE   SAM  ! 
JULY  4,  1905. 


CHIARINI    AND    HIS    ELEPHANT 

CHIARINI  and  his  elephant  have  been  here  a  week 

or  more, 
Giving  us  an  object-lesson  every  evening  o'er  and 

o'er; 
And  he's  left  us  now  as  ignorant  as  when  he  first 

began 
To  illustrate  to  the  public  the  most  frequent  fate 

of  man. 

What  a  stupid  crowd  we  must  have  been  to  watch 

him  every  night, 

Grinning  grimly  at  the  tragedy  enacted  in  our  sight ! 
Grinning  grimly  as  the  mighty  beast  obeyed  his  beck 

and  nod — 
Scowling  darkly  as  he  used  his  goad  or  shining  silver 

prod! 
I  say,  what  fools  we  must  have  been  when,  the  poor 

brute's  labor  done, 
We  smiled  to  see  its  pleasure  o'er  the  insufficient 

bun, 
To  have  never  gazed  upon  the  glass  Chiarini  held 

on  high, 
And  beheld  the  truth  reflected — and  turned  away 

to  cry! 
For  there's  many  men  and  women  we  can  quickly 

call  to  mind 
Who  have  left  both  home  and  country,  left  even 

hope  behind, 

84 


Who  are  acting  out  life's  ghastly  farce  before  us 

every  day, 
Who  are  shambling  thro'  their  petty  parts  as  best 

they  can  or  may, 
Who  forget  the  goad  of  avarice  in  the  pat  upon  the 

head, 
And  forgive  the  prod  of  silver  for  the  needful  loaf 

of  bread ! 

All  hail,   then,    Chiarini !      Teach   your   lesson   all 

about! 
You  may,  sometime,  meet  people  who  have  sense  to 

find  it  out! 


IN    MEMORIAM 

HE'S  dead !   He's  dead !   Poor  Jack  is  dead, 
And  gone  to  the  monkey  heaven ; 

He  was  very  young  when  he  was  born, 
And  he  died  at  the  age  of  seven. 

I  state  this  age  for  the  sake  of  rhyme. 

Yet,  wise  ones,  do  not  laugh, 
For  truth  is  oft  thus  sacrificed 

To  write  an  epitaph. 

He  lived  a  strictly  moral  life, 

Though  at  heart  a  sybarite; 
His  mind  a  mine  of  wisdom  was, 

And  nature  his  delight. 

Though  all  the  sciences  he  loved, 

First  came  anatomy ; 
And  that  is  how  he  came  to  be 

An  expert  in  phlebotomy. 

He  passed  his  life  examining 

All  the  insects  he  could  get ; 
And  all  life's  secrets  were  to  him 

An  open  book,  you  bet ! 

And,  thoughtless  stranger,  if  you  knew 
The  things  he  must  have  known, 

We'd  have  to  move  to  another  world, 
For  you'd  claim  this  as  your  own. 
86 


So,  dear  old  Jack,  pray  think  of  us 
As  you  eat  your  pease  and  rice, 

And  swing  contented  by  your  tail 
On  the  trees  of  Paradise ! 


THE    EPITAPH 

HERE  lies — although  he  told  the  truth, 
Or  so  to  do  did  always  try — 

A  hybrid — neither  man  nor  youth. 
I  pray  thee,  stranger,  let  him  lie ! 

His  failings,  his  and  his  alone, 

Tho'  possibly  inherited, 
He  only  wished  upon  the  stone 

Above  his  bones,  to  have  it  said : 

He  sought  with  zeal  the  narrow  way 

Of  virtue  and  sobriety ; 
He  found  it — but  the  selfsame  day 

Grew  tired  of  the  society ! 

So  chose  he  then,  in  pride  bedecked, 
To  build  a  pathway  of  his  own ; 

He  failed — he  was  no  architect ! 
His  sins  were  his — let  him  atone! 


88 


SAINTS'    REST 

ONE  day  quite  recently  a  knock 

At  heaven's  brazen  gates 
Ascended  to  the  lofty  post 

Where  the  warder,  listening,  waits; 
Who,  summoning  his  shining  host, 

Came  down  his  private  stair 
To  question,  as  his  custom  is, 

The  suppliant  waiting  there. 
He  touched  the  mystic  spring  that  throws 

The  mighty  bolts  aside, 
And  with  a  twist  of  his  saintly  wrist 

The  portals  opened  wide. 


Before  him  stood  a  ghastly  wreck 

Of  manhood's  promise  fair, 
Who  bore  the  gaze  of  all  the  throng 

With  a  damn-if-I-care  air. 
He  was,  in  truth,  a  broken  man — 

Malaria's  cankering  hand 
Had  stamped  wan  face  and  drooping  form 

With  her  enduring  brand. 
His  joints  were  swollen,  shoulders  bent, 

And  as  his  shrivelled  bones 
Contorted  'neath  his  shrunken  skin, 

He  gasped  between  his  groans : 


"  Oh,  I'm  the  greatest  sinner  that 

Has  e'er  been  here  before, 
For  each  commandment  of  the  law 

I've  broken  o'er  and  o'er ! 
I've  taken  God's  great  name  in  vain 

A  million  times,  I  think ; 
And  caused  the  good,  with  horror  struck, 

From  my  foul  words  to  shrink ! 
I've  worshipped  idols  countless  times — 

In  fact,  these  later  days 
I've  broken  that  express  command 

A  thousand  different  ways! 

"  Since  childhood's  long-gone,  happy  hours 

The  Sabbath  I've  ignored ; 
If  ever  I  have  gone  to  church, 

I've  been  supremely  bored ; 
And  I've  dishonored  parents  dear, 

Oh,  time  and  time  again ! 
I  killed  while  running  on  the  road 

I'm  sure  full  fifty  men ! 
I've  coveted  each  separate  thing 

My  neighbors  have  possessed, 
And  to  adultery's  kindly  crime 

I've  frequently  confessed! 

"  False  witness  I  have  freely  borne — 

I've  lied  my  whole  life  long; 
And  taken,  doubtless,  many  things 

That  did  not  to  me  belong ! 
90 


In  short,  there's  not  a  single  vice 

That  I've  not  wallowed  in : 
I  am  a  very  monument 

Of  reeking,  hideous  sin ! 
But — "   Here  that  dreadful,  loathsome  thing 

Approached  Saint  Peter's  ear, 
And  murmured  something  that  alone 

The  stooping  guard  could  hear. 

And  then  before  that  startled  throng 

Saint  Peter  grasped  his  hand ; 
And  motioning  his  shining  host 

Each  side  the  gate  to  stand, 
He  led  him  to  the  golden  stairs, 

And  pointing  straight  ahead, 
In  clarion,  far-reaching  voice 

To  the  wretched  pilgrim  said: 
"  Climb  up,  O  weary  one,  climb  up ! 

Climb  high !    Climb  higher  yet, 
Until  you  reach  the  plush-lined  seats 

That  only  martyrs  get ! 
Then  sit  you  down  and  rest  yourself 

While  years  of  bliss  roll  on !  " 


Then  to  the  angels  he  remarked : 
"  He's  been  living  in  Colon!  " 


TWO    WORDS 

THERE  are  many  things  I  love,  my  friends,  and 

many  things  I  hate ; 
There    are    things    I    simply  reverence,    things    I 

abominate ! 
And  I'd  like  to  tell  them  all  to  you,  outspoken,  frank, 

and  fair; 
But  'twould  take  more  time  and  patience  than  we've 

either  got  to  spare. 

So  we'll  drop  externals  totally,  for  Nature  drew  the 
plan; 

We  can't  change  it  one  iota,  nor  no  other  power 
can! 

She  placed  thorns  among  the  roses,  gave  the  peach 
its  bloom  and  fuzz, 

Some  of  us  made  straight,  some  crooked :  "  Hand 
some  is  that  handsome  does." 

There  are  faces  that  are  beautiful — as  fair  as 
angels'  wings! 

There  are  faces  so  repulsive  that  their  flaws  a  shud 
der  brings ! 

But  the  loveliest  face  you  ever  saw  may  veil  a  leper's 
taint, 

And  the  face  that's  most  repellent  may  disguise  a 
very  saint! 

92 


'Tis  in  deed  and  motive  we  must  look  for  all  our 

loves  and  loathes, 
For  appearances  of  good  and  ill  are  masquerading 

clothes ! 
There's  no  man  or  woman  either  that  forever  can 

deceive ; 
There's  a  warp  or  woof  that's  rotten  in  each  fabric 

that  they  weave ! 

So  to  come  right  down  to  business,  all  I  love  and 

all  I  hate 
Just  two  words  describe  completely — just  two  words 

most  fully  state ! 
They  are  easy  words  to  think  of,  they  are  hard 

words  to  forget : 
They  hold  all  the  good  and  evil  that  the  world's 

discovered  yet! 

I  love  gentlemen  in  thought  and  act  who  to  them 
selves  are  true! 

I  love  women  who  are  faithful,  whose  devotion's 
ever  new ! 

I  love  people  whose  ambition  is  the  wreath  of 
verity — 

These  I  love,  and  these  I  find  in  this  one  word: 
Sincerity ! 

I  hate   meanness,   hate    deception,    and    I    hate    a 

pander — cur ! 
I  hate  arrogance  and  treachery,  I  hate  a  slanderer! 

93 


Hate  a  liar,  hate  the  "  codfish  "  in  our  aristocracy ! — 
These  I  hate,  and  these  I  find  in  this  one  word : 
Hypocrisy ! 

You   will    pardon   me    these   platitudes — I    wasn't 

"  called  "  to  preach, 
And  I'm  struggling  for  a  higher  plane  than  I  fear 

I'll  ever  reach ; 

But  I'd  be  very  happy  if,  in  spite  of  frowning  fate, 
I  could  make  some  people  love  and  hate  the  things 

I  love  and  hate ! 


94 


THEN     AND     NOW 

SPAKE  the  Lord  to  His  suffering  servant, 
The  mild-mannered  martyr  of  Uz, 

From  the  midst  of  the  turbulent  tempest — 
As  the  Lord  most  generally  does : 

"  Who  is  this  that  darkeneth  counsel 
By  words  without  knowledge  or  sense  ? 

Where  wert  thou  when  I  laid  the  foundations 
Of  earth  in  the  darkness  intense? 

"  When  the  morning  stars  chanted  together, 
And  my  suns  shouted  loudly  for  glee? 

When  I  made  the  cloud-garment  of  ocean, 
And  his  limits  did  fix  and  decree? 

"  Hast  thou  ever  commanded  the  dawning 
By  the  light  of  thy  signified  grace? 

Didst  thou  cause  by  thy  precepts  and  teaching 
The  dayspring  to  know  his  own  place? 

"  Unto  thee  have  the  gates  of  death  opened  ? 

Hast  thou  seen  the  door's  shadow  thereof? 
And  the  dwellings  of  light  and  of  darkness — 

Their  places,  dost  know  aught  whereof  ? 

"  Who  gendered  the  hoar-frost  of  heaven  ? 

Out  of  whose  womb  cometh  the  ice  ? 
Will  the  waters  pour  forth  their  abundance 

From  the  clouds  at  the  sound  of  thy  voice  ? 

95 


"  Canst  thou  bind  the  sweet  power  of  Pleiad  ? 

The  bands  of  Orion  unband  ? 
Canst  thou  send  forth  the  thunder  and  lightning, 

Or  hold  them  sedate  in  thy  hand  ? 

"  Shall  he  that  contendeth  instruct  Me  ? 

His  duty  to  God  shall  he  tell  ? 
Let  him  that  reproves  the  Almighty 

Make  answer — and  answer  it  well !  " 

Thus  spake  the  Lord  out  of  the  whirlwind 
To  the  mild-mannered  martyr  of  Uz ; 

But  the  Lord  asked  too  many  questions, 
As,  somehow,  the  Lord  always  does ! 

Yet  now,  if  He'd  speak  in  a  zephyr, 
The  mildest  that  blows  o'er  the  bay, 

He'd  get  answers  to  all  of  His  queries 
Ere  the  sound  of  His  voice  died  away ! 


96 


FIDUS    ACHATES 

(A  PET  DOG) 

O  FAITHFUL  friend!    Companion 

Of  many  Isthmian  years! 
Through  dry  and  rainy  season, 

Through  happiness  and  tears, 
I've  never  known  thee  falter, 

Whatever  chance  might  bring : 
Thy  faith's  an  open  psalter, 

From  which  thy  praise  I  sing ! 

Thy  love  each  year  increaseth 

By  never  act  of  mine ; 
My  conduct  ever  pleaseth 

That  wondrous  heart  of  thine ! 
Tho'  oft  neglected,  slighted, 

On  days  of  selfish  gloom, 
Thy  fondness  ne'er  is  blighted, 

But  e'er  in  fuller  bloom ! 

Should  Time  decree  us  parting — 

Oh,  may  this  never  be ! — 
I'll  curse  the  fate  disheart'ning 

That  severs  me  from  thee! 
May  Death  unbarb  his  arrow 

Whene'er  toward  thee  he  shoots, 
And  spare  my  soul  to  harrow, 

For  I  love  thee,  "  Mr.  Toots  1  " 

97 


WARNED 

THERE  is,  so  old  Mohammed  said 

Some  little  time  ago 
(It  was,  if  memory  serves  me  well, 

Twelve  hundred  years  or  so ! ) , 
A  wondrous  bridge  across  the  space 

'Twixt  Earth  and  Paradise, 
Of  marvellous  construction  and 

Most  curious  device. 


Not  wider  is  its  footpath  than 

A  famished  spider's  web ; 
The  knife-edge  of  the  guillotine 

Is  wider,  so  'tis  said ! 
And  far  beneath  its  dizzy  height 

Lies  Hell's  appalling  gloom, 
Where  tortured  souls  forevermore 

Work  out  their  awful  doom. 
And  o'er  this  gruesome  bridge  must  pass 

The  spirits  of  the  dead, 
With  no  less  speed  and  no  less  weight 

Than  Thought  and  Lightning  wed ! 
The  soul  that  travels  safely  here 

Must  sort  its  sins  with  care, 
Nor  e'er  attempt  a  heavy  one 

Upon  the  span  to  bear. 
98 


Of  all  the  sins  that  falls  have  caused 

To  those  upon  the  trip, 
That  bulky  load,  hypocrisy, 

Has  made  the  most  to  slip. 
If  this  is  really  so,  dear  friends, 

Disastrously,  I  fear, 
Will  end  the  parlous  journey  when 

We  on  the  bridge  appear ! 


99 


TRANSMIGRATION 

AH,  ha,  I  know  you  now  at  last! 

I've  traced  you  thro'  the  ghostly  past ! 

Down  from  the  far  Azoic  Age 

I  know  your  each  succeeding  stage ! 

I  mind  you  well !    When  I  was  stone 

You  could  not  then  leave  me  alone, 

For  you  were  fungus — choked  my  breath 

With  your  putrescent,  mouldy  death ! 

When  I  a  megatherium — 

The  last  surviving — had  become, 

You  were  the  scale  upon  my  eyes, 

You  were  the  itch  upon  my  thighs! 

And  then  when  I  was  pachyderm 

And  ruminant,  each  in  their  turn, 

You  were  the  poison  in  the  mud — 

The  bitter  herb  that  spoiled  the  cud ! 

I  was  a  monkey,  then  a  man ; 
You  first  a  louse,  then  saurian. 
I  know !    'Tis  scarce  a  thousand  years 
Since  you,  a  crocodile  in  tears, 
Swam  up  the  Ganges,  ate  my  child, 
And  with  your  slime  the  stream  defiled ! 
And  then  when  I  in  Lisbon  town 
Incurred  the  Inquisition's  frown, 
You  were  the  fiend  in  red  and  black 
Who  pressed  the  levers  of  the  rack ! 

100 


I  died  for  liberty ;  you  were 
The  tyrant's  executioner! 
Your  presence  then  became  a  joy — 
You  lost  your  power  to  annoy ! 
You  saw  my  smile  and  your  mistake, 
And  quickly  did  that  sphere  forsake. 
Since  then  you  haven't  been  a  man ; 
To  retrograde  you  then  began, 
And  now,  tho'  still  with  me  you  stay, 
You're  that  to-morrow,  this  to-day. 
The  cur  that  howls  the  whole  night  through, 
The  fever  lurking  in  the  dew, 
The  sand-fly  on  my  blood  intent, 
The  sly  mosquito,  pestilent! 
The  ant  that  o'er  the  sugar  crawls, 
The  spider  on  my  head  that  falls ! 
You've  found  your  office  once  again — 
Your  sharpest  tool  is  petty  pain ! 
Your  greater  efforts  lose  their  wings — 
You're  potent  but  in  little  things ! 
Ah,  yes,  I  know  you  thoroughly! 
You'll  cling  to  me  eternally  ; 
And  reincarnate  though  I  be 
Thro'  century  on  century, 
You'll  dog  my  footsteps  night  and  day 
Till  sense  and  matter  pass  away ! 
To  happiness  superlative 
You  are  the  prefix  negative ! 
The  qualification  Evil  sent — 
Your  name  is  dis  and  mine  content! 
101 


A    TOAST 

I  DRINK  to  him  who  when  he  knows  he's  wrong 

Has  manliness  enough  to  say  so ; 
Whose  Yes,  when  others  dodge,  is  clear  and  strong, 

Who  when  he  thinks  No  will  but  say  No. 

I  drink  to  him  whose  spoken  Yea  and  Nay 
No  skulkers  shelter  just  behind  them ; 

Whose  sentiments  are  open  as  the  day, 

So  when  one  needs  them  one  can  find  them, 

I  drink  to  him  who  to  his  own  affairs 
Pays  sole  and  strict  attention  purely ; 

Who  deals  not  in  his  neighbor's  wares — 
For  he's  a  rara  avis  surely ! 


1 02 


SAINT    PATRICK 

HERE'S  to  you,  dear  old  Patrick, 

In  tuns  of  Irish  wine, 
That  tastes  of  bog  and  peat-fire, 

And  that  merry  heart  of  thine! 
A  hundred  healths  I've  pledged  you, 

A  hundred  more  I'll  drink! 
God  keeps  you,  His  pet  crony, 

Near  His  right  hand,  I  think! 

You,  doubtless,  sit  there  musing 

O'er  the  life  that  had  to  pass ; 
Why  don't  you  come  and  join  me 

In  one  last  fragrant  glass ! 
In  body  'tis  not  possible — 

You've  cast  flesh-pots  away; 
But  aid  me  with  your  spirit 

To  drink  your  natal  day ! 

You  won't  ?    'Tis  not  your  fault,  then 

You've  had  your  little  fling, 
And  now  you're  sublimated — 

Wear  halo,  robe,  and  wing! 
But  know,  my  dear  old  fellow, 

I've  kindly  thoughts  of  thee 
As  I  quaff  this  nightcap,  dreaming 

Of  Seventeenths  to  be! 


103 


MALACHI 

THE  last  of  the  prophets — old  Malachi — 

Way  up  on  the  great  coping-stone 
Of  the  loftiest  tower  of  Paradise, 

Sat  pensively  musing  alone 
As,  weary  of  walking  the  golden  streets, 

And  inspecting  the  palaces  fair, 
In  my  dream  I  ascended  the  battlements, 

And  discovered  him  sitting  there. 

I  knew  him  at  once,  and  I  hastily  climbed 

Over  many  a  huge  parapet, 
Till  I  reached  him  at  last,  and  sat  by  his  side 

On  the  top  of  the  tall  minaret. 
He  seemed  down  in  the  mouth — dejected,  in  fact, 

And  I  marvelled  profoundly  thereat ; 
But,  laconic  as  ever,  he  gave  me  Good-day, 

And  told  me  to  take  off  my  hat. 

He'd  a  halo  round  his  head  that  wouldn't  come  off, 

Or  he'd  shed  it,  at  least  so  he  said ; 
He  remarked  that  he'd  worn  it  for  two  thousand 
years, 

And  'twas  getting  as  heavy  as  lead. 
"  In  fact,"  said  he,  "  stranger,  I'm  awfully  tired 

Of — well,  nearly  everything  here; 
The  things  that  once  seemed  to  me  wondrously  fine 

Are  becoming  unbearably  drear. 
104 


"  I  am  tired  of  the  sunlight  that  never  grows  dim, 

And  I  long  for  a  shower  of  rain ; 
A  regular  flood  would  be  welcomed  by  me 

Could  I  see  but  a  rainbow  again ! 
I  am  tired  of  metallic,  glittering  streets, 

And  I  long  for  an  old  country  road ; 
I  long  for  the  mountains,  the  valleys,  the  fields — 

To  ride  with  the  hay  on  the  load ! 

"  I  long  for  the  trees,  for  the  flowers,  and  ferns, 

And  I  long  to  hear  birds  sing  again ; 
I  am  tired  of  the  sound  of  hosanna  and  harp — 

Stringed  instruments  give  me  a  pain ! 
The  jaspery  sea  is  quite  beautiful,  yes, 

But  of  late  it  is  rather  a  bore ; 
I  am  perfectly  crazy  to  plunge  in  the  surf, 

And  to  smell  the  salt  water  once  more ! 

"  I  am  tired  of  the  summer — I  wish  it  would  snow ! 

I'd  like  to  see  hoar-frost  and  ice ! 
I'd  like  to  build  forts,  and  slide  down  the  hills — 

Oh,  wouldn't  that  be  mighty  nice  ! 
I'd  like  to  be  out  in  a  howling  old  gale — 

To  buffet  and  battle  the  storm ! 
I  wouldn't  mind  getting  completely  chilled  through 

For  the  bliss  of  again  getting  warm ! 

"  And,  say ! — never  breathe  it ! — I  once  knew  a  girl 
When  I  sojourned  in  Palestine  there, 

Whose  shoulders  were  guiltless  of  feathers  or  wings, 
Who  wore  sandals,  and  '  did  up  '  her  hair! " 
105 


Right  here  I  awoke,  and  I  think  it  was  time, 
Tho'  I  lost  what  the  seer  meant  to  say. 

Last  night  I  retired,  somewhat  sick  of  this  world, 
But  I'm  feeling  more  cheerful  to-day ! 


106 


ME    TOO 

THAR  are  these  six  things  ez  the  Lord  doth  hate — 

Yes,  seven  ez  make  Him  sick ! 
I  wuz  thinkin'  'em  over  myself  last  night, 

And  they're  enough  tew  make  enny  one  kick ! 
Ye  kin  find  the  hull  list,  ef  ye  don't  believe  me, 

In  Proverbs,  along  to'rds  the  fust ; 
And  uv  all  the  sins  uv  humanity, 

I  guess  they  are  clus  tew  the  wust. 

A  proud  look  on  the  face  uv  a  man 

Ez  hain't  got  no  pride  at  all ; 
Who  don't  even  know  the  sense  uv  the  word — 

Who  thinks  it  means  nothin'  but  gall ! 
A  lyin'  tongue  thet  wags,  b'gosh, 

Like  the  clack  uv  an  old  grist-mill — 
Thet  is  hung  in  the  middle  and  works  both  ends, 

Thet  death  alone  kin  keep  still ! 
Hands  thet  shed  innercent  blood  comes  next, 

And  I  calkerlate  ye'll  agree 
Thet  thar's  nothin'  more  pizon  in  enny  one 

Than  deliberet  krewelty ! 
And  then  thar's  the  heart  thet's  busy  all  day 

And  purty  near  all  the  night, 
A-devizin'  all  kinds  uv  wickedness, 

And  tryin'  tew  make  black  look  white ! 
Nur  He  don't  like  the  feet  thet  be  so  swift 

Ter  run  inter  mischef  and  sich : 
The  path  thet  they  make  don't  run  very  straight, 

And  like  ez  not  leads  tew  a  ditch ! 
107 


A  crooked  witness  ez  can't  speak  the  trewth 

Don't  cut  enny  figger  with  Him ! 
A  perjerer's  chances  uv  gittin'  thar, 

I  reckon,  are  all-fired  slim ! 
Then  the  feller  thet's  allers  a-raizin'  a  row 

'Twixt  people  ez  wanter  be  friends : 
He's  the  last  on  the  list,  but  he  wun't  be  the  least 

When  He  declars  His  dividends ! 

These  are  the  things  ez  the  Lord  jest  hates 
And  abomernets  all  the  way  threw ; 

I  wuz  thinkin'  'em  over  myself  last  night, 
And  I'll  be  durned  ef  I  don't  tew! 


108 


LITTLE    JAMAICA    MAN 

A    COOLIE    TOWN    LULLABY 

DE  sun's  hangin'  ovah  de  aidge  of  de  worl', 

Li'l  man,  li'l  man; 
An'  de  clouds  in  him  breat'  all  frizzle  an'  curl, 

Li'l  Jamaica  man. 

Hit's  gwine  be  dahk  fe  come  bimeby, 

Li'l  man,  li'l  man; 
So  light  up  de  tawch  in  you  tail,  firefly, 

Li'l  Jamaica  man. 

De  stahs  got  ta  swing  low  down  dis  night, 

Li'l  man,  li'l  man; 
De  fool-vahgin  moon  feegit  hile  fe  light, 

Li'l  Jamaica  man. 

But  hit  meks  no  difFunce  to  dis  sugah  chile, 

Li'l  man,  li'l  man; 
Hi  fin'  light  'nuff  in  him  mummah  smile, 

Li'l  Jamaica  man. 

De  win'  blow  hahd,  but  him  no  git  skeer, 

Li'l  man,  li'l  man; 
De  tunnah  crack,  but  him  mummah  here, 

Li'l  Jamaica  man. 

De  Lahd  got  him  safe  in  Him  'evingly  keep, 

Li'l  man,  li'l  man; 
So  sleep  along,  honey,  sleep — sleep — sleep, 

Li'l  Jamaica  man. 
109 


BENEATH    THE    ROSE 

BENEATH  the  rose,  who  knows  ? 
Perchance  a  serpent  lurketh  there, 
Safe-screened  within  that  bosom  fair  ; 
And  passion's  lightest  breath  that  blows 
May  all  the  turpitude  disclose 
Clandestine  there,  beneath  the  rose! — 
Who  knows? 

Beneath  the  rose,  who  knows? 
Perchance  a  wrong  is  burning  there, 
A  brand  upon  that  bosom  fair, 
That  wider,  deeper,  hourly  grows — 
A  brand  that  ever  flames  and  glows, 
Suspected  not,  beneath  the  rose ! — 
Who  knows? 

Beneath  the  rose,  who  knows? 
Perchance  a  love  is  dying  there, 
Enfamished  on  that  bosom  fair — 
A  starveling,  whose  expiring  throes 
Are  witnessed  not  by  friends  or  foes 
Who  cannot  see  beneath  the  rose ! — 
Who  knows? 

Beneath  the  rose,  who  knows? 
Perchance  a  joy  is  hiding  there, 
And  madly  thrills  that  bosom  fair ! 
Whate'er  there  be,  it  never  shows ; 
She  still  doth  smile  and  calmly  pose ! 
Can  there  be  naught  beneath  the  rose  ? — 
Who  knows? 
HO 


AT    SUNSET    TIME 

AT  sunset  time  so  long  ago — 
Ah,  long  ago !    Ah,  hearts  of  woe ! — 
We  numbered  in  the  shoreless  West 
The  cloud-born  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
And  sought  the  one  we  once  would  know. 

O'er  seas  serene  of  opal  glow, 
With  softened  thoughts  we  urged  the  quest 
Till  Night's  far  whisper  bade  us  rest 
At  sunset  time. 

And  now,  tho'  left  alone,  and  tho' 
Through  tears  the  Isles  but  dimly  show, 
We  seek,  still  seek  the  purple  crest 
Where,  waiting,  She  hath  made  her  nest, 
And  Hope — for  She  would  have  it  so — 
At  sunset  time. 


in 


I    THINK    OF    THEE 

THE  sun  has  set — the  stars  are  in  the  sky, 
The  clouds  form  valleys  deep  and  mountains  high, 
And  as  I  watch  full  many  a  form  and  face 
Appear  and  vanish  in  the  azure  space, 
I  think  of  thee. 

The  sun  has  set — the  weary  day  is  done, 
Another  night  of  retrospect  begun ; 
Yet  while  fond  memory  tales  of  sadness  tells, 
One  ray  of  comfort  all  the  gloom  dispels — 
I  think  of  thee. 

The  sun  has  set — across  the  land  and  sea 

That  seem  to  separate  my  love  from  me, 

Still  soul  communes  with  soul,  heart  throbs  with 

heart  ; 

Tho'  distance  darkens  we  are  not  apart — 
I  think  of  thee. 


112 


SHE    SENDS    HER    LOVE 

SHE  sends  her  love !    My  heart  prepare 
To  cleave  the  last,  thin  band  of  air 
Where  slothful  spirits  hesitate 
And  sluggish  souls  deliberate, — 
Then  back  to  sordid  earth  repair. 

We'll  leave  this  atmosphere  of  care 
And  zones  of  ether  penetrate — 
For  doth  the  word  not  clearly  state, 
"  She  sends  her  love  "  ? 

Yea !    Jubilant  our  path  shall  fare 
To  that  far  Aiden  none  may  dare 
Save  those — the  passing  fortunate, 
To  whom — O  dear  and  charming  fate — 
O  boon  benign  and  rapture  rare- 
She  sends  her  love ! 


TO    VIOLET 

WHEN  Nature  scattered  roses  'round 

To  please  the  eye  of  man, 

She  rested  while  she  stood  aloof 

Her  handiwork  to  scan. 

She  was  by  no  means  satisfied — 

A  flower  was  lacking  yet ; 

And  so  she  came  to  earth  again 

And  brought  the  violet. 

That's  why,  dear  one,  thy  friends  rejoice 

And  render  thanks  to-day ; 

Our  souls  are  glad,  our  hearts  are  light — 

We  laugh,  we  sing,  we  play. 

For  Nature,  bless  her  smiling  face, 

Our  need  did  not  forget, 

But  gave  us  what  has  pleased  us  most — 

Our  precious  Violet! 


114 


THESE    AWFUL    DAYS 

THE  sun  climbs  over  the  indigo  hills 

And  lazily  mounts  the  sky; 
So  slothful  his  gait  that  noon  we  await 

Ere  his  course  is  two  hours  high. 
The  waveless  sea  inertly  lies 

In  the  hush  and  quiet  of  death — 
All  nature's  asleep  in  slumber  deep, 

And  the  breeze  is  an  infant's  breath. 

O  these  are  the  days,  the  awful  days, 

When  the  fiercest  spirit  quails! 
When  the  keenest  zest  is  fain  to  rest, 

When  the  strongest  effort  fails. 
When  the  sluggish  mind  and  the  sluggish  soul 

To  the  sluggish  pulse  respond ; 
\Vhen  desire  is  dead,  ambition  fled, 

And  we  sink  in  the  Slough  of  Despond ! 


THE    HAPPIEST    TIME 

IN  all  the  day  the  happiest  time 

Is  when  old  blazing  Red  Eye  sets, 
And  frogs  in  distant  pools  of  slime 
Begin  their  raucous  pumps  to  prime; 
When  crickets  practice  their  duets 
And  fireflies  puff  their  cigarettes. 

The  deadly  night-air  not  at  all 

Doth  frighten  me,  for  I'm  immune; 

And  I've  become  so  tropical, 

So  bilious  and  malarial, 

Mosquitoes  sing  as  sweet  a  tune 
As  ever  did  the  birds  of  June. 

So,  on  the  balcony  at  ease, 

I  watch  the  stars  wink  merrily, 
And  palms  play  in  the  evening  breeze 
At  see-saw  with  the  almond  trees — 
And  now  it  is  that,  verily, 
I  look  at  things  quite  cheerily. 

This  is  the  hour  I'm  glad  to  live, 

And  know  I'd  just  as  gladly  die; 
The  hour  that  doth  one  courage  give 
To  sift  his  sins  in  Candor's  sieve, 
And  when  in  graded  heaps  they  lie 
To  count  them  o'er  without  a  sigh. 
116 


It  is  the  hour  that  brings  relief 

From  daylight's  all-exposing  glare; 
That  deadens  doubt  and  dims  belief, 
And  even  dulls  one's  dearest  grief ; 

When  one's  most  hateful  fault  looks  fair- 
For  'tis  the  hour  when  one  don't  care! 

And  so  to  me  the  happiest  time 

Is  when  old  blazing  Red  Eye  sets, 

And  frogs  in  distant  pools  of  slime 

Begin  their  raucous  pumps  to  prime — 

When  crickets  practice  their  duets 

And  fireflies  puff  their  cigarettes. 


117 


TABOGA 

I  KNOW  of  an  isle  in  the  mighty  Pacific, 

To  which  Nature  retires  when  her  day's  work  is 
done, 

And  thence  doth  she  issue  decrees  soporific 
That  govern  the  world  to  the  rising  of  sun. 

There  she  marshals  the  stars  and  parades  constella 
tions, 
Commanding  their  march  o'er  the  fleece-adorned 

blue, 

And  orders  the  moon  to  pour  silver  libations 
To  the  Master  of  Night  and  his  shadowy  crew. 

On  the  crest  of  the  mountain  a  rude  cross  erected 
By  rev'rently  pious  hands  long  years  ago, 

Spreads  sheltering  arms,  in  soft  light  reflected, 
O'er  the  bamboo-built  hamlet  that  nestles  below. 

Down  verdure-clad  slopes  and  terracing  reaches 
Where  orange  and  mango  and  pine-apple  grow, 

One  wanders  thro'  Eden  to  ocean-washed  beaches — 
An  Eden  that  only  the  sun-children  know. 

Here  Idleness  tarries  and  Care  is  a  stranger ; 

Here  Love  has  his  grotto  and  fashions  the  darts 
That  bear  on  their  flight  their  ever-sweet  danger 

To  eagerly  waiting  and  passionate  hearts. 
118 


Alas  that  our  happiness  never  lacks  leaven — 
That  an  anchor  is  chained  unto  every  delight! 

That    Taboga's    a    place    which    might    be    called 

Heaven, 
Were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  it  isn't, — not  quite! 


119 


ONLY    A    WEED 

I  DISCOVERED  a  flower  yesterday 

In  a  rubbish  barrel  growing; 
It  smilingly  nodded  its  head  at  me, 

In  the  gentle  zephyr  blowing. 

Its  petals  were  beaten  from  elfin  gold 
By  a  fairy  as  day  was  breaking ; 

She  daintily  fashioned  them  all  alike, 
From  a  heart  her  pattern  taking. 

She  joined  them  together  in  matchless  grace, 
With  a  star  each  pendant  gripping, 

And  enamelled  them  all  with  velvet  gloss, 
Her  brush  in  the  sunshine  dipping. 

From  her  diadem  then,  a  tiny  pearl 
She  loosed  from  its  sheeny  setting, 

And  fastened  it  down  in  a  stellar  zone 
With  tethers  of  filmy  netting. 

It  was  only  a  weed,  when  all  is  said, 

In  a  rubbish  barrel  growing, 
That  smilingly  nodded  its  head  at  me, 

In  the  gentle  zephyr  blowing; 

But  I  plucked  it,  and  bring  it  here  to  you 
With  never  a  word  of  preaching : 

Should  it  bear  no  lesson  within  itself, 
Why,  you're  past  the  power  of  teaching! 
1 20 


SIMPLE    AVEU 

EVENING  dons  her  starry  robe, 

All  the  world's  asleep ; 
Luna,  pale  and  cold,  looks  down, 

Shadows  sweep  the  deep. 
Yet,  dear  heart,  thy  presence  seems 

Brightness  full  for  me; 
Sleeping,  thou  art  all  my  dreams, 

Awake,  I  think  of  thee! 

List,  oh,  listen !    Hear  my  vow 

As  I  longing  plead : 
Faith  and  truth  I  pledge  thee  now, 

Love  in  thought  and  deed ! 

Gently  folds  the  wings  of  night, 

Darkness  falls  apace ; 
Yet  my  soul  is  full  of  light — 

Light  from  thy  dear  face. 
Night  can  ne'er  of  life  be  part; 

Darkness  never  be! 
Day  is  ever  in  my  heart 

While  I  think  of  thee ! 

Gentle  lady,  of  thy  grace 

Tell  me  thou  art  mine ; 
Then  shall  neither  time  nor  place 

All  my  love  confine! 

121 


Banish  every  doubt  and  fear, 
Grant  my  earnest  plea ; 

Bless  the  suppliant  waiting  here 
Thinking  still  of  thee! 


122 


"THE     OLD     FAMILIAR     FACES" 

COME,  let  us  sit  together  while 

Old  friends  are  round  us  falling, 
And  memory  doth  our  tears  beguile — 

Departed  days  recalling. 
Hold  thou  my  hand,  and  I'll  hold  thine, 

Thou  friend  of  many  graces, 
While  we  drink  a  cup  of  salty  wine 

To  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Long  years  have  we  together  dwelt, 

Thro'  dry  and  rainy  season ; 
I've  felt  with  thee,  as  thou  hast  felt 

With  me,  o'er  Fortune's  treason. 
We've  seen  our  comrades  sail  away 

To  earth's  far-distant  places, 
And  'tis  salty  wine  we  drink  to-day 

To  the  old  familiar  faces. 


Together  we  have  fought  the  fight — 

Each  other  always  aiding — 
Together  we  have  watched  the  light 

'Neath  each  other's  eyelids  fading. 
So  put  thy  brave  old  hand  in  mine 

While  we  count  the  empty  spaces, 
And  drink  a  cup  of  salty  wine 

To  the  old  familiar  faces. 
123 


Full  many  a  one  we've  borne  to  rest, 

Our  hearts  with  sorrow  breaking; 
Full  many  a  friend  on  earth's  cold  breast 

His  last  repose  is  taking. 
Then  let  us  drain  death's  loving-cup, 

And  dash  away  the  traces : 
'Tis  salty,  yet  we'll  drink  it  up 

To  the  old  familiar  faces. 

There's  still  an  arrow  left  for  us 

In  that  exhaustless  quiver ; 
Right  soon,  with  Charon's  pall  o'er  us, 

We'll  cross  the  inky  river; 
But  put  thy  brave  old  hand  in  mine, 

Thou  friend  of  many  graces, 
And  pledge  with  me  in  salty  wine 

The  old  familiar  faces. 


124 


"OLD    COMRADE" 

GOD  bless  you,  dear  old  comrade, 

You're  my  kind  of  gentleman ! 
I've  known  you  since  the  "  eighties," 

When  our  years  of  grief  began. 
I've  known  you  and  I've  loved  you — 

I  couldn't  help  it,  see? 
And  I've  respected  you,  sir, 

As  you've  respected  me ! 

You've  never  thought  your  duty 

Lay  in  making  others  feel 
That  on  top  was  your  position — 

Theirs  the  bottom  of  the  wheel. 
Yours  are  Nature's  manners, 

Yours  is  the  tender  heart; 
And  the  part  that  you  have  chosen 

Is,  by  God,  the  better  part ! 

You've  sorrowed  with  the  weeping, 

You've  been  merry  with  the  glad; 
You've  helped  to  bear  the  burden 

When  it  almost  drove  us  mad ! 
You've  wasted  no  time  talking, 

You've  simply  said  a  word, 
But  in  that  word  we've  fancied 

A  sermon  we  have  heard! 
125 


Again  I  say,  God  bless  you 

Wherever  you  may  be! 
Whatever  be  the  distance 

You  can't  get  far  from  me ! 
I've  known  you  and  I've  loved  you 

Since  our  years  of  grief  began : 
Here's  a  brimming  bumper  to  you- 

You're  my  kind  of  gentleman! 


126 


THE    PRAYER    OF    A    TIMID    MAN 

OH,  answer  me,  Lord,  from  the  whirlwind, 
As  Thou  didst  Thy  servant  of  old ! 

Oh,  tell  me  in  speech  without  figures 
The  things  I  long  to  be  told ! 

Cast  into  my  heart's  darkened  chamber 
One  ray  of  Thine  infinite  light! 

Drive  out  from  my  soul  but  an  instant 
The  deepening  shadow  of  night! 

Give  heed  to  my  ceaseless  petitions 
As  prostrate  I  lie  at  Thy  feet ! 

Reply  to  my  unspoken  questions — 
The  questions  I  dare  not  repeat ! 


127 


IF    YE    WEEP 

IF  ye  weep,  ah,  then  weep  least  for  him 

Who  mourns  some  loved  one  lost, 
For  tender  Time  smoothes  finally 

The  brow  with  pain  o'ercrost; 
The  wound  will  heal  that  seemeth  now 

E'er  open  to  the  touch : 
And  forgiven  much — 'tis  written  so — 

Is  he  that  loveth  much. 

If  ye  weep,  ah,  weep  far  more  for  him 

Who  sheds  no  outward  tear, 
But  whose  very  soul  the  unshed  tears 

Of  disappointment  sear! 
Who  tries  and  fails  and  tries  again, 

And  faileth  o'er  and  o'er — 
For  him  whose  life  naught  visiteth 

Save  failure  evermore! 

If  ye  weep,  ah,  yes ;  weep  most  for  him, 

The  unsuccessful  man, 
Whose  weakness  of  each  dear  design 

Leaves  but  the  barren  plan; 
Who  fails  and,  as  a  forest  leaf, 

Unheeded,  falls  to  rot : 
All  charm  unknown,  all  grace  unseen, 

For  to  him  hope  cometh  not! 


128 


MEMORY 

"  There  is  no  progress  in  the  life  which  feeds  on  memory,  only 
stagnation  and  death." — Elements  of  Theosophy. 

ON  memory's  progressless  sea 

Then  let  me,  stagnant,  lie 
And  rot  with  my  remembrances 

Until  I,  stagnant,  die! 

No  gospel  preach  to  me,  I  pray, 

That  robs  me  of  the  bliss — 
Still  sweetly  tasted  on  my  lips — 

Of  a  sainted  mother's  kiss ! 

That  teaches  that  the  childish  prayer 

I  prattled  at  her  knee 
Was  silly  nonsense,  and  unfit 

To  be  recalled  by  me! 

That  teaches  that  a  father's  care, 

The  precepts  that  it  taught, 
Are  wisdomless,  devoid  of  truth, 

And  hence,  accounted  naught! 

That  sees  in  youth  and  love's  first  dream 

No  lessons  that  the  mind 
On  Karma  set,  on  progress  bent, 

Some  benefit  may  find! 
129 


That  would  ignore  the  consciousness 

Of  life's  maturer  sins; 
That  teaches  that  with  every  day 

Another  life  begins! 

That  dims  the  blush,  that  blunts  the  sting 

Of  an  unworthy  deed; 
That  teaches  that  of  memory's  whip 

No  mortal  hath  a  need ! 

Ah,  no,  I'll  suffer  for  my  faults 
Each  wretched  night  and  day; 

And  in  kind  acts  small  comfort  find 
In  the  old,  old-fashioned  way. 

So,  then,  on  memory's  changeless  sea 

Pray,  let  me,  stagnant,  lie 
And  rot  with  my  remembrance* 

Until  I,  stagnant,  die! 


130 


THE    WAVE 

BEHOLD,  far  out  upon  the  heaving  sea 
That  dim,  faint  shadow-line  that  momently 
Grows  deeper,  wider,  longer,  till  at  length, 
It  gathers  form  and  ocean's  awful  strength, 
And  rushing  onward  o'er  the  hidden  reef, 
With  one  prolonged  and  thundrous  sob  of  grief 
Relinquishes  its  might;  and  on  the  shore 
Becomes  a  pool — a  giant  wave  no  more! 

And  what  of  this?    Why,  this  is  human  life. 
Impelled,  we  know  not  how,  we  join  a  strife, 
The  purpose  and  design  of  which  we  are 
As  far  from  knowing  as  yon  frozen  star, 
Whose  wickless  lamp  a  million  years  hath  lit. 
We  rise,  we  fall,  and  that's  the  end  of  it! 


JOB    AND    ANOTHER 

ANOTHER 

A  MOAN  for  the  hapless  dying, 

A  moan  for  the  helpless  dead, 
A  moan  for  the  thousands  lying 

On  yonder  hillock  dread. 
A  moan  for  the  passed  and  passing 

Let  us,  the  living,  give ; 
And  then,  our  voices  massing, 

A  groan  for  those  that  live. 

JOB 

If  Thou  to  a  grave  would'st  guide  me, 

And  over  me  darkness  cast, 
In  secrecy  would'st  hide  me 

Till  Thy  day  of  wrath  be  past, 
An  appointed  time,  oh,  set  me 

To  wait  Thy  welcome  call; 
Nor,  hidden,  do  Thou  forget  me, 

Lest  I,  like  the  mountain,  fall! 

For  now  while  e'en  I  slumber 

Thou  watchest  o'er  my  sin; 
My  footsteps  Thou  dost  number, 

And  the  shrinking  fears  therein. 
Desire  with  desire  Thou  cloyest; 

The  race  ends  ere  'tis  ran : 
Serenely  Thou  destroyest 

The  dearest  hope  of  man! 
132 


ANOTHER 

A  moan  for  the  hapless  dying, 

A  moan  for  the  helpless  dead, 
A  moan  for  the  thousands  lying 

On  yonder  hillock  dread. 
A  moan  for  the  passed  and  passing 

Let  us,  the  living,  give ; 
And  then,  our  voices  massing, 

A  groan  for  those  that  live. 


133 


LET    ME    ALONE 

I  CARE  not  who  the  cup  celestial  wins, 

Let  me  alone! 
I've  lost  my  grip,  I'm  wedded  to  my  sins, 

Let  me  alone! 

Within  my  hand  I  hold  no  stone  to  throw ; 
Let  that  suffice :  it  is  enough  to  know. 

Fare  straight  ahead,  oh,  ye  the  sanctified! 

Let  me  alone! 
I  pray  ye,  race  upon  the  other  side, 

Let  me  alone! 

I  stumbled  early,  fell,  and  here  I  lie 
Contented,  so  ye  do  but  pass  me  by ! 

For  me  no  visions  of  the  Promised  Land, 

Let  me  alone! 
For  me?    Not  much !    I  would  not  with  ye  stand, 

Let  me  alone! 

For  me  nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  star  shall  bow ; 
'Tis  Reuben,  'tis  not  Joseph,  dreaming  now ! 


134 


AU     REVOIR 

I  WANDERED  last  night  'to  the  mystical  mountain 
Where  the   Muses  recline  'neath   the   evergreen 
trees ; 

And  deeply  I  drank  at  the  crystalline  fountain, 
While  flowers  of  poesy  perfumed  the  breeze. 

And  this  was  my  object :    To  see  if  I  could  not 

Imbibe  or  absorb  of  the  gentlest  of  arts 
Some   aid   to  express — pray,    tell   me   who   would 

not?— 

The  thoughts  that  this  evening  lie  deep  in  our 
hearts. 

I  deemed  it  my  right  and  my  privileged  duty 
To  gather  a  garland  of  messages  sweet; 

A  wreath  of  good  wishes  in  blossoming  beauty 
As  an  earnest  of  friendship  to  place  at  thy  feet. 

Alas,  for  my  dreams!  With  daybreak  they  van 
ished, 

Leaving  never  a  trace  of  their  fragrance  behind ; 
And  I  from  Parnassus  am  evermore  banished 

With  soul  over-full,  but  with  vacuous  mind. 

So,  tremblingly,  haltingly,  timidly,  weakly, 
Yet  voicing  the  feeling  that  governs  us  all ; 

Unworthily,  doubtless,  but  humbly  and  meekly, 
I  pray  for  all  blessings  upon  thee  to  fall. 

135 


I  drink  to  the  virtues  that  cause  us  to  love  thec, 
I  drink  to  the  graces  so  purely  thine  own ; 

I  drink  to  kind  skies — may  they  long  smile  above 

thee — 
And  the  tenderest  twilight  that  ever  was  known ! 

A  health  to  thy  journey !     God  grant  us  to  lead  it, 
And  on  it  the  favors  of  fortune  compel! 

A  health  to  the  morning — God  grant  us  to  speed  it — 
When   the  word   shall  be   Welcome   instead   of 
Farewell ! 


136 


VICTORIA    THE    WOMAN 

(C.  C.   M.) 

DOWN  thro'  a  glorious  century  she  treads, 
Each  step  an  added  glory  to  the  years ; 

Her  fame  the  halo  round  a  myriad  heads, 
Her  name  a  name  a  willing  world  reveres : 

A  queen  whose  power  naught  hath  long  withstood, 

A  queen  whose  chiefest  grace  is  womanhood. 

Let  others  sing  her  grandeur  on  the  throne; 

In  ode  and  epic  let  the  paean  swell ; 
Her  arms  and  state-craft  chant  in  thrilling  tone, 

In  deathless  words  her  brilliant  triumphs  tell : 
'Tis  ours  in  humble  verse — crude,  incomplete — 
To  lay  our  tribute  at  the  woman's  feet. 

All  pride  and  pomp  and  circumstance  aside 
Flung  with  the  trappings  of  the  civic  life, 

We  see  her  stand,  a  simple,  modest  bride — 
Lamented  Albert's  true  and  loyal  wife : 

His  love  her  crown,  all  other  crowns  apart, 

His  love  the  sceptre  of  her  woman's  heart. 

In  all  the  beauty  of  maternity 

Example  sweet  and  admonition  mild, 

Forgetting  regal  place  that  she  may  be 
The  guide  and  playmate  of  a  little  child : 

Still  steadfast  as  the  crowding  cycles  fly, 

In  woman's  realm  her  greatest  majesty. 

137 


Handmaiden  of  the  virtues,  all  and  each, 
Swift  to  reward,  swift  to  rebuke  as  well ; 

The  love  of  home  her  happiness  to  teach, 
'Mid  social  purity  her  joy  to  dwell : 

A  censor  of  society,  whose  aim 

Hath  ever  been  to  honor  woman's  name. 

We  hail  her,  then ;  and  as  the  earth  resounds 
With  soaring  song  and  martial  blare  and  blast, 

While  Glory  leads  her  on  her  dazzling  rounds, 
We  in  her  path  would  our  poor  offering  cast : 

The  flower  of  our  reverence  for  one 

Whose  queenly  soul  hath  woman's  duty  done. 


1901 

Hail — and  farewell!     Bereaved  and  unconsoled, 
Beside  her  tomb  the  world  she  dignified 

Still  reverent,  listens  while  the  tale  is  told 
Of  how  a  Queenly  Woman  ruled — and  died : 

And  'round  her  name  that  world  for  ages  yet 

Shall  wreathe  the  homage  of  profound  regret. 


138 


A    SPRIG    OF    SAGE-BRUSH 

A  SPRIG  of  sage-brush  I've  brought  to  you 

From  the  prairies  of  the  West; 
I  know  'tis  the  season  for  mistletoe, 

But  I  thought — well,  you  know  best! 
Perhaps,  however,  you'll  listen  awhile 

And  ponder  the  matter  well ; 
And  render  your  judgment  afterward 

On  the  tale  I've  got  to  tell. 

I  sing  no  song  of  knightly  might, 

Or  deed  of  warrior  brave, 
Or  tell  of  exploit  nobly  dared 

A  woman's  fame  to  save ; 
All  these,  and  more,  'tis  my  delight 

To  reverence  with  you ; 
But  that  there're  other  kinds  of  pluck 

As  great,  I  think  is  true. 

'Twas  early  days  in  Medicine  Lodge 

On  the  road  to  No  Man's  Land, 
When  men  played  high,  and  settled  games 

With  a  gun  in  either  hand. 
When  iron  nerves  and  a  steady  eye 

Were  trumps  when  a  row  began, 
And  the  reputation  greatly  prized 

Of  having  killed  one's  man. 

139 


And  the  man  whose  reputation  stood 

Head-high  above  the  rest 
Was  Isaac  Walton — Ike  for  short — 

The  terror  of  the  West. 
No  bully  he,  but  quick  and  sure, 

And  tenacious  of  his  right; 
And  no  man  ever  saw  him  run 

Or  dodge  the  deadliest  fight. 

And  very  proud  was  Ike  of  this, 

And  his  reputation  kept 
Unsullied  save  by  those  who  short 

Within  the  graveyard  slept ! 
Until  one  night  old  Morris  Smith, 

Before  a  crowd  of  men, 
Gave  him  the  lie,  and  dared  him  shoot — 

Not  once,  but  thrice  again! 

A  hush  such  as  had  not  been  known 

For  many  a  year  and  long — 
Since  lonely  winds  moaned  o'er  the  spot — 

Fell  on  that  waiting  throng ! 
And  then — that  hand  of  cruel  aim, 

That  hand  that  ne'er  before 
Was  known  to  falter — dropped,  and  Ike 

Strode  thro'  the  open  door! 

Next  day  a  horseman  far  from  town 

Met  Isaac — Ike  for  short — 
And,  trembling  much,  asked  him  if  there 

Was  truth  in  the  report. 
140 


"  Thar  mebbe — yes — I  run,"  said  Ike, 

"  '  My  reputation  ?  '     Lost ! 
'  Why  did  I  do  it  ?  ' — wall,  yer  see, 

I  kinder  thought  the  cost 

"  Of  old  Smith's  life  ter  them  kids  o'  his 

A  ruther  steep  price  ter  pay 
Fer  a  repertation  I  kin  git 

In  a  damned  sight  cheaper  way!" 
I've  brought  this  sprig  of  sage-brush  here, 

Tho'  it  should  be  mistletoe; 
But  don't  you  think  I  have  an  excuse  ? 

Just  think — and  let  me  know ! 


141 


THE    MINORITY 

WHENCE  do  they  come,  they  of  the  lofty  bearing, 
Whose  manners  voice  an  elevated  life, 

Whose  faces,  smiles  of  triumph  wearing, 
Tell  us  of  strife, 

And  victory  won  o'er  weaknesses  of  nature, 
And  petty  sinfulness  ?   In  what  grave  tone — 

In  what  phraseology  and  nomenclature 
To  us  unknown — 

Do  they  commune  together  o'er  the  tale 

Of  how  we  strive  to  reach  them  but  to  fail  ? 

We  may  not  say !   Perchance  they  are  descended 

In  line  unbroken  from  the  Pharisee 
Who  once  within  the  gates,  his  knee  unbended, 

Thanked  God  that  he 
Was  not  as  other  men !  We  must  not  murmur, 

Oh,  mourning  brother  of  the  frail  estate ! 
Our  steps  will  aye  be  weak,  theirs  aye  the  firmer ! 

We  may  be  late ; 

Yet,  haply  still,  each  much-repented  fall 
Shall  aid  us  answer  His  last  muster-call ! 


142 


CHARITY 

To  brag  or  boast  of  one's  own  deeds 

Is  nature's  mild  insanity — 
The  pabulum  on  which  one  feeds 
The  craving,  ever-pressing  needs 
Of  this  weakness  of  humanity. 

And  I  would  aid  to  place  a  ban 

Upon  all  thoughts  satirical ; 
For  I  believe  that  every  man 
Is,  in  his  heart,  a  charlatan, 
And  more  or  less  empirical. 

Then  why  pose  as  exceptional, 

Or  claim  superiorities, 
When  at  thy  soul's  confessional 
Thou  hast,  perforce,  to  mention  all 

Thine  own  inferiorities? 

Come,  let  us  strive  to  be  so  great 

As  to  deny  disparity 
Between  the  faults  with  all  innate, 
And  ours,  that  are  commensurate — 

Thus  practising  true  charity! 


143 


THE    PORTAL    AND    THE    DOOR 


THROUGH  a  shining  portal  springs  a  youth  to  grasp 

his  kingdom  fair, 
With  a  smile  of  fond  assurance — careless,  blithe  and 

debonair  ; 
'Tis  a  heritage  of  gladness   that  he   rapturously 

claims, 
And   his   joy-bejewelled   sceptre   just   before   him 

brightly  flames. 

II 

One  who  early  plucked  life's  fruitage — thro'  its  rosy 

surface  tore; 
To  whose  trembling  lip  still  clings  the  dust  left  by 

the  ashen  core ; 
One  who  longed  and  lost — a  sad,  stern  man — chokes 

down  a  bitter  sob 
As  he  slowly  passes  through  a  door  that  has  no 

outer  knob. 


144 


TO    JOHN     PAYNE 

To  dream  with  thee  in  fair  Armida's  garden, 
Thou  sweetest  dreamer  of  the  dream-song  land, 
I  entreat  thy  kind  compliance; 
I  crave  with  thee  alliance : 
Across  the  sea  that  thou  would'st  clasp  my  hand. 

Deem  not  my  hope  but  too  audacious  folly — 
'Tis  most  sincere,  this  humble  prayer  of  mine; 

For  tho'  the  world  is  ringing 

With  the  notes  of  poets  singing, 
There  is  no  voice  that  thrills  me  as  does  thine ! 

So,  then,  oh,  thou  most  gracious,  tender  master, 
I  ask  to  follow  on  thine  upward  way : 
I  would  suffer  all  thy  sadness, 
Would  be  glad  with  all  thy  gladness, 
And  with  thee  learn  to  dream  and  sing  and  pray ! 


145 


A    SHIP    OF    MIST 

A  SHIP  of  mist  sails  out  of  a  cloud, 
Out  of  a  cloud  at  the  sunrise  time ; 

The  glint  of  the  dawn  is  on  sail  and  shroud, 
The  glint  of  the  dawn  of  the  sunrise  clime. 

Into  the  blue  from  the  harbor  gray, 

Into  the  blue  of  the  living  day, 

Into  the  vast  she  sails  away. 

Ahoy,  lone  sailor,  what  of  the  voyage? 
"  I've  neither  chart  nor  bearing,  friend!  " 

A  ship  of  mist  sails  into  a  cloud, 
Into  a  cloud  at  the  sunset  time; 
The  shade  of  the  dusk  is  on  sail  and  shroud, 
The  shade  of  the  dusk  of  the  sunset  clime. 
Into  the  gloom  with  the  dying  light, 
Into  the  gloom  of  the  endless  night, 
Into  the  vast  she"  sails  from  sight. 

Ahoy,  lone  sailor,  what  of  the  voyage? 
"  I'm  past  the  care  of  caring,  friend! " 


146 


WE    LINGER    STILL 

WE  linger  still,  tho'  many  a  one 
Who  thought  his  labor  just  begun 
Has  learned  his  task  was  but  to  fill 
A  narrow  space  on  yonder  hill ; 
And  found  it  easy — quickly  done! 

O'er  longer  stints  ere  rest  is  won — 
O'er  work  we  may  not  slight  or  shun — 
With  ever-lessening  speed  and  skill 
We  linger  still. 

His  hopeless  race  the  jaded  sun 
With  tireless  Time  has  nearly  run ; 
The  evening  falls,  the  night  winds  chill 
The  fainting  heart  and  failing  will : 
Expecting  all  things,  fearing  none, 
We  linger  still. 


147 


WHEN    I    AM    DEAD 

WHEN  I  am  dead  no  graven  stone 
Thou  need'st  erect  to  make  it  known 
That  one  lies  there  of  whom  'twas  said : 
His  faults  were  not  of  heart,  but  head, 
And  such  as  all  men  should  condone. 
My  sins  are  mine  and  mine  alone! 
Let  no  man's  thoughts  be  once  misled, 
Or  tastes  for  eulogy  be  fed 
When  I  am  dead! 

Pray,  tell  the  truth :  that  may  atone 
For  a  life  of  folly  like  my  own, 
By  warning  others  not  to  tread 
The  path  o'er  which  my  feet  have  bled. 
I'd  have  no  "  mantles  "  round  me  thrown 
When  I  am  dead! 


148 


TO    HIM    WHO    WAITS 

To  him  who  waits  all  things,  they  say, 

Will  come  upon  a  certain  day : 

The  love  that  Love's  own  sloth  belates, 

The  satisfaction  of  the  hates, 

For  which  one  yearns,  tho'  does  not  pray. 

Success  will  bring  the  wreath  of  bay 
She  filched  from  Fame,  as  sleeping  lay 
The  sullen  and  unwilling  Fates, 
To  him  who  waits. 

It  may  be  true !    Ah,  yes,  it  may ! 
But  hearts  grow  feeble,  Faith  grows  gray; 
Her  greed  for  sadness  Sorrow  sates; 
Hope  trembles,  doubts  and  hesitates, 
While  Fortune  loiters  on  her  way 
To  him  who  waits. 


149 


MY    WICKER    JUG 

MY  wicker  jug  before  me  stands, 
A  quart  within  its  woven  bands — 
A  quart  of  undiluted  themes, 
A  quart  of  concentrated  dreams 
At  vagrant  Fancy's  soft  commands. 

I  ramble  now  enchanted  lands 
Of  forest  glades  and  purling  streams — 
The  while  benignly  on  me  beams 
My  wicker  jug. 

Led  by  Caprice's  listless  hands, 
I  reach  at  last  far  Lethe's  strands 
Where  Memory  dies  and  darkness  teems- 
Save  where  beside  me  kindly  gleams, 
Still  murmuring  gently  its  demands, 
My  wicker  jug. 


150 


THE    SWEET    OLD    STORY 

DOWN  the  tunnel  long  that  Time  hath  built- 
Thro'  the  circles  smaller  growing — 
Past  the  doubts  and  fears 
Of  the  arching  years — 
Toward  the  entrance  dimly  glowing 
Doth  Memory  speed  on  her  way  to-night 
Back  to  childhood's  dormitory, 
Just  to  hear  once  more 
With  the  faith  of  yore 
The  sweet  old  Christmas  story. 

All  unhid,  she'll  slip  in  the  trundle-bed 
To  the  space  'twixt  down  and  feather ; 

And  will  lay  her  head, 

As  in  time  long  fled, 
Where  the  pillows  meet  together. 
She  will  close  her  eyes  at  the  face  she  sees 
All  ablaze  with  loving  glory, 

As  a  mother  sweet 

Will  again  repeat 
The  dear  old  Christmas  story. 

The  angels  and  shepherds  again  will  play 
Their  parts  in  the  drama  holy; 

The  star  will  appear, 

The  wise  men  revere, 
The  Babe  in  the  manger  lowly. 


Then  Memory,  like  Mary,  will  ponder  well 
These  things  of  the  ages  hoary ; 

And  with  tender  art 

Tell  the  softened  heart 
The  old,  old  Christmas  story. 

Oh,  the  sweet  old  story ! 

The  dear  old  story ! 
The  old,  old  story  to  memory  dear ! 

Hearts  of  the  boldest, 

The  sternest,  the  coldest, 
Grow  warm  o'er  the  story  told  once  a  year! 


THE    FALL    OF    OLD    PANAMA 
1671 

His  Catholic  Majesty,  Philip  of  Spain, 

Ruled  o'er  the  West  Coast,  the  Indies  and  main ; 

His  ships,  heavy  laden  with  pesos  and  plate, 

Sailed  o'er  the  South  Sea  with  tribute  of  state. 

From  Lima  and  Quito  his  galleys  pulled  forth 

For  Panama  pearls  and  gold  of  the  North ; 

And  cargoes  of  treasure  were  sent  overland 

While  his  soldiers  kept  guard  from  the  gulf  to  the 

strand. 

From  Panama  Bay  to  the  port  "  Name  of  God  " 
Long  freight  trains  of  slaves  thro'  the  dense  forests 

trod: 
Then,  some  through  the  straits  and  some  from  the 

main, 
King  Philip's  good  ships  sought  their  owner  again. 

On  England's  grand  throne  great  Elizabeth  reigned, 
And  on  sea  and  on  land  her  power  maintained ; 
O'er  the  hearts  of  her  subjects,  o'er  the  conquests 

they  made, 
O'er  their  lives  and  their  fortunes  her  sceptre  she 

swayed. 

But  her  title  of  "  Queen  of  the  Seas  "  to  dispute 
King  Philip  essayed  from  the  land  of  the  lute; 
And  velvet-clad  Dons  cast  their  love-songs  aside 
To  battle  the  English,  and  wind,  wave  and  tide. 


In  many  and  mortal  affray  they  engaged, 

And  bravely  and  fiercely  the  struggle  they  waged, 

But  the  men  of  old  Devon — those  stout  hearts  of 

oak — 

As  often  successfully  parried  each  stroke. 
The    Drakes  and  the  Gilberts,  the   Grenvils  and 

Leighs, 

The  Oxenhams,  Raleighs — the  props  and  the  stays 
Of  England's  first  greatness — were  the  heroes  of  old 
Who  helped  Britain's  queen  with  the  Spanish  king's 

gold. 

They  robbed  the  arch-robber  of  ill-gotten  gain, 
And  brought  England  the  glory  they  wrested  from 

Spain. 
His    galleons    they    captured,    his    treasure    trains 

seized — 

Outfought  him  abroad  and  with  zeal  unappeased. 
At  home  they  defeated  the  Armada's  great  fleet, 
And  laid  a  world's  spoil  at  Elizabeth's  feet. 


Alas,  that  such  deeds  should  grow  dim  with  the 

years ! 

Alas,  that  such  men  should  have  trained  buccaneers ! 
That  from  such  examples — so  noble,  so  true — 
A  race  of  marauders  and  ruffians  grew ! 
That  fiends  such  as  Morgan  should  follow  the  wake 
Of  men  like  John  Oxman  and  Sir  Francis  Drake, 
Who  swore  by  the  oak,  by  the  ash  and  the  thorn, 
God  helping  them  always,  to  sail  round  the  Horn 

154 


To  fair  Panama  and  the  placid  South  Sea, 
Which  they  saw  one  day  from  the  top  of  the  tree ! 
For  old  England's  glory  their  standard  to  raise, 
To  cruise  the  Pacific  and  its  isle-dotted  bays. 
Four  miles  from  where  Ancon  looks  down  on  the 

New 

Stood  old  Panama,  whence  Pizarro  once  drew 
The  bravest  of  followers  Peru  to  obtain 
And  her  Incas  subject  to  the  power  of  Spain; 
Where  once  stood  cathedrals  and  palaces  fair, 
Whose  altars  and  vessels  and  tapestries  rare 
Were  the  pride  of  a  people  whose  opulence  then 
Was  the  envy  of  kings  and  the  longing  of  men ; 
Where  once  stately  streets  to  the  plains  stretched 

away, 

And  warehouses  skirted  the  vessel-lined  bay ; 
Where  plantations  and  gardens  and  flowering  trees 
Once  perfumed  the  tropical  evening  breeze — 
Stands  naught  but  a  ruin  half  hidden  from  view, 
A  pirate's  foul  gift  to  his  bloodthirsty  crew ! 


From  sacked  Porto  Bello  redhanded  they  came, 
All  bloodstained  from  conquest  unworthy  the  name, 
To  the  mouth  of  the  Chagres,  where,  high  on  the 

hill, 

San  Lorenzo  kept  guard,  to  plunder  and  kill 
Its  devoted  defenders,  who  courageously  fought 
For    homes,    wives    and    children,    accounting    as 

naught 

155 


Their  lives  held  so  precious,  so  cherished  before, 
Could  they  drive  the  fierce  pirates  away  from  their 

shore. 
Three  days  they  repulsed  them,  but  to  find  every 

night 

The  foe  still  upon  them  in  ne'er-ending  fight. 
Their  arms  could  not  conquer  the  powers  of  hell ! 
San  Lorenzo  surrendered — ingloriously  fell! 
Burned,    famished    and    bleeding    from    many    a 

wound, 
They  lay  while  their  stronghold  was  razed  to  the 

ground. 

On,  on  up  to  Cruces  the  buccaneers  sped, 

But  to  find  it  in  ashes,  its  inhabitants  fled. 

Yet  on  and  still  on,  with  Morgan  ahead, 

They  pressed  down  the  road  that  to  Panama  led. 

Nine  days  through  the  forest  unbroken  they  tramped, 

And  at  last  on  a  mount  near  the  city  encamped. 

Before  them  the  ocean  for  leagues  away  rolled ; 

Below  them  the  islands  lay  bathed  in  the  gold 

Of  the  sun  that,  just  setting,   looked  mournfully 

down 

On  the  last  day  of  life  of  the  ill-fated  town : 
While  around  them  the  plains  with  groves  of  bright 

trees 

Sheltered  cattle  and  fountains  their  wants  to  ap 
pease. 

The  famed  "  golden  cup  "  lay  filled  at  their  hand, 
And  to  drain  it  at  sunrise  the  buccaneers  planned. 

156 


"  Oh,  ho,  for  the  morrow !  "  quoth  Morgan  the  bold. 
"  Oh,  ho,  for  the  day  and  the  tale  to  be  told !  " 

The  dawn's  faint  purple  had  scarce  'gan  to  light 
The  peak  of  Ancon,  erst  hid  in  the  night, 
When  the  blare  of  the  trumpet  and  beat  of  the  drum 
Made  known  that  the  day  of  the  struggle  had  come. 
In  the  camp  of  the  pirates  "  To  arms !  "  is  the  cry ; 
"  Press  forward,  my  hearties,  our  treasure  is  nigh ! 
Avoid  the  main  road — there  are  ambuscades  there — 
Push  on  through  the  forest,  your  firearms  prepare !  " 
Now  out  on  the  hill,  still  called  the  "  Advance," 
The  buccaneers  over  their  enemy  glance. 
Before  them  they  see  in  the  full  light  of  day 
The  Spaniards  drawn  up  in  battle  array. 
Two  squadrons  of  horse,  four  thousand  of  line, 
With  bullocks  and  peons  their  forces  combine. 
And  then,  were  it  safer  for  them  to  retreat, 
Would  Morgan  have  ordered  the  signal  to  beat? 
Too  late  it  is  now — it  is  triumph  or  die ! 
Though  desperate  to  battle,  'twere  folly  to  fly ! 
'Tis  useless  to  falter!    On,  onward,  my  men! 
We  have  won   against  odds,   we   shall   win   once 
again !  " 

And  "  On !  "  cry  the  Spaniards,  shouting  "  Viva  el 

Rey! 

Our  numbers  are  greater !    Ours,  ours  is  the  day ! 
Our  bullocks  will  rout  them !    Huzza,  for  old  Spain ! 
The  gore  of  the  thieves  shall  enrich  the  plain !  " 

157 


Alas,  for  the  hopes  so  sadly  misplaced, 

For  never  before  such  a  foe  had  they  faced ! 

No  Indians  now,  but  trained  men  of  might, 

Who  had  learned  in  stern  schools  to  die  and  to  fight. 

Two  hours  they  fought  'neath  the  tropical  sun, 

Then  threw  down  their  muskets,  and — Morgan  had 

won! 

The  verdant  savanna  like  a  great  river  runs 
With  the  blood  of  six  thousands  of  Panama's  sons ! 
"  On,  on  to  the  city !  "  cries  Morgan  the  bold ! 
"  Oh,  ho,  'tis  the  day,  and  the  tale  is  soon  told !  " 

Then  awful  the  combat,  as  over  the  walls 

The  bloodthirsty  pirate  in  eagerness  falls! 

With  Spartan-like  valor  did  the  sons  of  those  who 

Had  assisted  Pizarro  to  conquer  Peru 

Attempt  to  o'erpower  the  fierce  buccaneer — 

To  save  city  and  home  and  all  they  held  dear ! 

But  vainly  they  struggled — repulsed  o'er  and  o'er, 

The  pirates  return  to  the  battle  once  more ! 

At  last  they  are  vanquished !     "  Now,   comrades, 

we'll  sup 
On  the  riches  we  find  in  the  West's  golden  cup !  " 

"  Fire,  pillage  and  slaughter !  "  the  order  goes  round 
Till  palace  and  cottage  are  burned  to  the  ground ; 
Till  cathedral  and  warehouse  no  treasures  contain, 
And  in  the  whole  city  no  gold  doth  remain ; 
Till  mother  and  daughter  are  captured  and  chained 
With  father  and  brother,  or  ransom  obtained. 

158 


Monasteries  and  hospitals — down  with  them  all ! 
Leave  not  a  stone  standing  on  yon  city  wall ! 
"  Oh,  ho,  'tis  the  day!  "  quoth  Morgan  the  bold! 
"  Oh,  ho,  'tis  the  day,  and  the  tale  is  now  told !  " 

O  demon  insensate !    O  offspring  of  hell ! 
What  pen  may  thine  awful  enormities  tell ! 
How  picture  the  cruelties,  useless  and  vain, 
Upon  the  march  back  through  the  forest  again! 
Old  men  tottering  feebly  'neath  Time's  hoary  crown, 
Frail    women   in   chains    and  with   burdens   borne 

down, 
Fresh  youth  and  grown  man  and  the  child  but  just 

born, 

Scourged  pitilessly  on  with  the  lash  and  the  thorn, 
While  sobs,  lamentations  and  shrieks  of  despair 
Unceasingly  freighted  the  soft  summer  air! 
The  ink  turns  to  tears  and  corrodes  the  sad  pen 
O'er  the  tortures  at  Cruces  repeated  again. 
There,  under  the  shade  of  the  broad  mango  trees — 
'Mid  anguish  that  nothing  may  ever  appease — 
Are  parents  and  children  and  husbands  and  wives, 
Condemned  without  mercy  to  horrible  lives! 

Then  back  down  the  Chagres  the  buccaneers  hie 
To  where  ships  near  the  castle  awaiting  them  lie ; 
And  embarked  with  his  slaves,  his  treasure  and  gold, 
Once  again  for  Port  Royal  sails  Morgan  the  bold  I 


159 


THE    LAND    OF    THE    CACIQUE 

NEAR  the  cliffs  of  Portobelo, 

Where  the  fortress  still  is  standing, 

Near  the  moss-clad  old  cathedral 

That  the  Dons  built  long  ago ; 

Eight  degrees  from  the  equator, 

From  the  southward  counting  northward, 

Lies  the  land  of  the  Cacique, 

Lies  the  region  of  San  Bias. 

There  the  skies  are  soft  and  tender, 

And  the  clouds  form  wondrous  pictures 

Round  the  crimson  sun  disrobing 

For  his  sleep  beneath  the  sea ; 

And  the  monarch  of  the  forest, 

The  majestic  palm-tree,  waveth 

Shining,  multi-sceptred  branches 

O'er  a  kingdom  all  its  own. 

There  the  almond-tree  doth  flourish, 

There  the  gorgeous  mango  groweth 

Close  beside  the  lustrous  caucho, 

And  the  tagua  strews  the  ground. 

There,  upon  the  sylvan  hillsides 

And  within  the  lovely  valleys, 

Nestles  many  an  Indian  village 

Of  the  slender  bamboo  built. 

'Tis  a  lyric  of  these  people, 
Of  their  customs  quaint  and  curious, 
160 


Of  the  rites  to  them  peculiar, 
That  the  bard  would  strive  to  sing : 
Sing  in  humble  words  and  simple 
To  a  harp  uncouth  and  awkward, 
As  befits  the  modest  minstrel 
Of  a  lowly  race  of  men. 
Lowly?    Yea,  but  lowly  only 
As  retired  from  observation — 
As  without  the  pale  of  notice 
Of  the  nations  of  the  world. 
For  within  his  own  dominion 
The  Cacique  and  his  subjects 
Are  as  dignified  and  haughty 
As  the  proudest  of  mankind. 
In  their  veins  no  mixed  blood  courseth, 
In  their  land  no  stranger  dwelleth, 
For  this  simple  child  of  nature 
Guards  his  country  with  his  life. 
Guards  his  race  from  all  admixture, 
Guards  his  ancient  superstitions, 
His  religion  and  his  customs, 
Zealously  and  jealously. 
For  a  solemn  oath  doth  bind  him — 
Sworn  above  his  father's  body — 
To  kill  wife  and  son  and  daughter 
Should  an  enemy  approach 
To  obtain  his  fair  possessions, 
Or  to  other  laws  subdue  him 
Ere  he  marches  to  the  battle 
That  can  end  but  with  his  life. 
161 


Every  hamlet  hath  its  chieftain, 
Subject  still  to  the  Cacique — 
The  Cacique  of  Sasardi — 
Who  is  ruler  over  all. 
Every  village  hath  its  Mila, 
Arzoguete  and  Tulete 
(Priest  and  teacher  and  physician, 
Councillor  and  wisest  men). 
Primitive  is  their  religion : 
Little  know  they  of  the  Godhead 
That  the  Israelites  discovered 
And  the  Gentiles  have  improved. 
No  need  here  for  costly  churches : 
Each  rude  hut  is  sanctuary, 
From  whence,  dying,  to  the  bosom 
Of  Eternal  Rest  they  go. 
And  to  show  the  Mighty  Spirit 
How  on  earth  they  toiled  and  labored, 
The  canoe  and  the  machete 
And  the  arrows  near  them  lie. 
Each  home  hath  its  cemetery, 
Built  within  a  palm  enclosure, 
Where  the  dead  swing  in  their  hammocks, 
Hid  forever  from  the  view. 
Seldom  dream  the  San  Bias  Indians, 
Seldom  lose  their  mental  balance, 
For  an  ancient  superstition 
Holds  all  such  condemned  to  death. 
'Tis  a  sign  that  evil  spirits 
Seek  to  cast  their  lot  among  them, 
162 


From  their  old  beliefs  to  win  them 
Unto  those  they  know  not  of. 

Let  us  leave  these  sad  statistics — 
Let  us  visit  the  Fiestas : 
Three  days  since  unto  an  Ohme 
A  Punagna  child  was  born; 
And  with  shouts  of  great  rejoicing 
And  libations  of  the  Chicha, 
They  will  pierce  the  tiny  nostril 
For  the  hoop  of  yellow  gold. 
Haste  we  quickly  to  another — 
To  a  festival  more  joyful: 
For  in  turn  the  shy  Punagua 
Hath  an  Ohme  now  become. 
Oh,  the  drinking!     Oh,  the  dancing! 
As  they  cut  the  maiden's  tresses ; 
In  her  father's  house  immure  her 
Till  her  husband  shall  be  found. 
Now  bring  forth  the  long  Cachimba, 
Bring  the  Ina,  bring  the  Guarra, 
Bring  the  men  and  bring  the  women : 
The  Nutschuqua  claims  his  bride! 
Long  the  parents  pondered  o'er  it, 
That  among  the  young  men  waiting 
They  might  choose  the  one  most  fitting 
For  their  daughter  and  themselves. 
Whom  could  choose  they  but  Machua  ? 
Who,  like  him,  to  snare  the  tortoise? 
Who,  like  him,  to  drive  the  Ulo 
163 


Through  the  breakers  of  the  coast  ? 
On  the  voyage  to  Portobelo, 
Though  with  cocoanuts  deep  laden, 
His  canoe  is  always  leading, 
Always  first  to  reach  the  port. 

Six  days  will  he  bravely  labor, 
Six  days'  toil  to  build  the  Ulo 
That  the  law  from  him  demandeth 
Ere  he  once  may  see  his  bride. 
Sweet  Punagua,  none  may  see  her; 
For  until  the  boat  is  builded 
In  the  pit  the  maid  is  hidden 
From  the  sight  of  every  one. 
From  her  father's  house  they  brought  her 
In  the  early  morning  darkness ; 
Now  about  her  all  the  village, 
In  a  circle  gathered  round, 
Sit  and  smoke  the  wedding  Guarra, 
Sit  and  drink  the  wedding  Chicha, 
Stories  tell  of  other  weddings, 
And  traditions  old  recite. 
Six  days  will  they  all  be  merry, 
Six  days  till,  his  labor  finished, 
With  rejoicing  comes  Machua — 
Comes  and  claims  his  promised  wife. 
To  her  father's  house  he  bears  her, 
There  to  serve  their  daughter's  parents 
Till  to  him  is  born  a  daughter, 
And  his  freedom  thus  is  gained. 
164 


Then  upon  the  sylvan  hillside, 

Or  within  the  lovely  valley, 

Or  upon  the  beach  of  coral 

They  will  build  their  palm-thatched  home ; 

And  in  turn  will  rear  their  children 

In  the  ancient  superstitions, 

And  to  all  the  tribe  be  useful 

In  the  common  industries. 

Let  them  live  in  their  seclusion, 
Let  them  keep  their  fair  possessions, 
Let  them  rule  themselves  unaided, 
O  ye  nations  of  the  earth! 
Let  them  practise  their  religion, 
And  observe  their  rights  and  customs 
O  ye  pushing  missionaries 
Of  accepted  creed  and  sect! 
Trouble  not  this  gentle  people — 
Leave  them  to  their  peace  and  quiet— • 
Nor  disturb  this  tropic  Eden 
Of  the  red  men  of  San  Bias! 


165 


ON    THE    BROW    OF    THE    HILL 

(The  cemetery  of  Monkey  Hill,  or  Mount  Hope — by  which 
latter  name  it  is  more  euphoniously  though  less  widely  known 
— is  situated  about  two  miles  to  the  southward  of  Colon,  and 
overlooks  a  wide  expanse  of  diversified  tropical  country.  At  its 
base  lies  the  extensive  plant  of  the  Panama  Canal  Company, 
and,  beyond,  the  straggling  little  city  and  broad  Caribbean  Sea. 
The  spot  was  first  used  as  a  burial-place  about  the  year  1853, 
shortly  after  the  beginning  of  the  work  on  the  Panama  Railroad. 

Although  of  such  recent  origin,  there  is  probably  no  more 
populous  Necropolis  in  the  New  World;  and  while  many  of  the 
tales  that  are  told  of  it  are  considerably  exaggerated,  they  all, 
unfortunately,  have  a  foundation  in  fact. 

Should  Macaulay's  Traveller  in  his  lonely  wanderings  visit 
this  tragic  mount,  visions,  perhaps  not  so  extensive,  but  cer 
tainly  as  melancholy  as  those  which  could  appear  to  him  on 
the  ruins  of  London  Bridge,  would  materially  assist  in  his  specu 
lations  upon  the  littleness  of  man  and  the  barrenness  of  life.) 

BENEATH  the  sea  the  diving  sun 

Is  searching  for  another  day; 
This  weary  one,  its  life  work  done, 

Expires  with  yon  swift-fading  ray. 

Low  at  my  feet  the  drowsy  town 
Lies  dully  mute,  awaiting  sleep; 

In  gathering  dusk  the  foothills  frown, 
And  o'er  the  waves  dark  shadows  creep. 

Where  once  fierce  toil  the  landscape  blurred, 
And  greed's  o'erweening  passion  dwelt, 

Now  only  laggard  steps  are  heard — 
The  pulse  of  life  can  scarce  be  felt. 
1 66 


The  lights  that  pant  with  feeble  breath 
Anon  will  vanish  in  the  gloom, 

And  in  the  very  lair  of  Death 
I  muse  upon  an  unknown  tomb. 

x 

Around  in  graves  thrice  multiplied 
The  bones  of  countless  thousands  lie; 

They  found  their  wish  here  satisfied 
Who  sought  a  nod  as  Wealth  passed  by. 

Success  and  Failure  side  by  side 
Enrich  the  dank  and  ocherous  mold ; 

Conducted  by  the  Pallid  Guide, 
Alike  come  here  the  faint  and  bold. 

The  envious  and  the  kind  of  heart 

On  evil  and  on  good  intent 
Out  here  perform  one  common  part — 

Their  separate  ways  together  blent. 

The  cunning  scheme,  the  noble  plan 

That  busy  intellects  evolved 
Here  find  the  worst  and  best  of  man — 

Life's  mazeful  problem  here  is  solved. 

Yon  rotting  cross  that  marks  the  place 
Of  ended  quest  in  stranger  land 

The  cancelling  months  will  soon  efface, 
Nor  leave  a  vestige  of  it  stand. 
167 


Yet  hear  the  tale  those  ruins  tell 
Ere  he  who  knows  the  story  falls ; 

And  tarrying  on  this  hill  of  hell, 
Obeys  the  last,  most  dread  of  calls. 

The  man  whose  dust  commingles  there 
Belike  with  that  of  some  low  thief 

Gave  promise  of  a  life  as  fair 

As  e'er  succumbed  to  blighting  grief. 

He  came  in  Fortune's  crowded  train 
To  wrest  from  her  a  fleeting  smile ; 

Erelong  he  seemed  his  end  to  gain, 
And  reigned  a  favorite  for  a  while. 

Around  him  gather  hosts  of  friends, 

Whose  praise  and  gifts  are  wondrous  sweet; 

Who  watch  that  no  harsh  word  offends, 
And  strew  bright  roses  'neath  his  feet. 

Beloved  by  women,  sought  by  men, 

His  life  is  one  continued  joy; 
He  buys  each  pleasure  o'er  again, 

Nor  in  the  gold  detects  alloy. 

What  wonder  that  the  reckless  crew 

His  early  teachings  soon  erase ; 
That  their  ideals  his  mind  imbue — 

His  once  keen  moral  sense  debase! 
168 


On,  on  he  travels  down  the  road — 
Laughs  gaily  in  each  sober  face; 

Just  now  he  bears  no  heavy  load — 
Of  coming  care  he  sees  no  trace. 

What  use  the  story  to  prolong? 

'Tis  hackneyed — stale  on  every  tongue : 
The  burden  of  each  dismal  song 

That  poets  have  for  ages  sung. 

The  smiles  of  Fortune  are  withdrawn — 
Her  fickle  favors  quickly  end; 

His  satellites  forget  to  fawn — 

He  seeks  in  vain  one  faithful  friend. 

In  broken  health,  enfeebled  mind, 
To  menials  then  for  aid  he  flies; 

And,  lastly,  failing  that  to  find, 
He  hugs  his  misery — and  dies. 

A  conscience-stricken  one  remains, 
Who  stealthily  erects  this  cross, 

Recording  one  of  Hades'  gains, 
And  sadly  marking  Heaven's  loss. 

Bend  low,  thou  gloomy,  starless  sky, 
And  in  thy  tears  each  hillock  lave! 

Sob  on,  thou  mournful  wind,  and  sigh 
O'er  stoneless  tomb  and  nameless  grave! 
169 


CURTAIN 

THE  rhymster  should  apologize,  perhaps, 

For  many  a  silly  jest  and  foolish  lapse; 

But,  then,  no  purposed  mischief  hath  he  done, 

And  truth,  you  know,  oft  masquerades  as  fun. 

It  may  be  that  his  utterances  trite 

Some  good  may  do — some  senseless  wrong  may 

right. 
There  may  be?  'mongst  them  all,  one  word  with 

pow'r 

To  call  a  smile — to  cheer  some  lonely  hour : 
If  so,  then,  he  whose  sentences  involved 
Contain  more  puzzles  than  may  e'er  be  solved, 
Fore'er  deserts  his  feeble,  unfledged  Muse — 
His  tuneless  lyre  abandons  to  disuse ! 
If  so— if  happ'ly  so ! — then  ring  the  bell,  , 

And  drop  the  curtain.    'Tis  a  glad  Farewell ! 


170 


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